


There Must Be Brighter Lights

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carter is a bad waiter and a failure of a queer and his landlord is getting impatient. Obviously there's nothing to do but become a porn star -er, actor. Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watch This Name

"Fuck off."

" _Sorry_?" I shout, voice tinny against the deafening throb of bass. I'm speaking into his neck, absorbing the cordial-sweet smell of his hair gel and then pulling back to watch his lips for an answer.

My companion fixes me with an unimpressed look. He's gorgeous so I guess he can do that -red hair in a punky sweep, delicate features, cute semi in his skintight leathers… He's probably come here looking for modelling work.

"You heard me.  _Fuck_.  _Off_ ," he enunciates clearly, plush lips shaping each syllable around his whiter-than-white teeth, like I'm slow; or worse,  _old_. He puts one dainty hand between my pecs and pushes to emphasise his point.

I'm genuinely stunned. Not hurt though. This is the Manhattan scene, not sad, desperate mid-town Vermont, and rejection is part of my big, scary, adult world. But yeah, this stings a bit in a  _whathefuckingfuck_  way.

"What?-"

I'm interrupted by some Jersey Shore shirtless asshole crashing into me and I grab onto Red to steady myself. He looks vaguely disgusted now. By my apparent ungainliness or by the streak of sweat and glitter now decorating one arm I don't know.

Back to my pressing engagement with rejection.

" _Why_?"

He huffs, making a show of scanning the crowd -for his friends or for a better hook up. Finally when no one comes to his rescue he turns to look up at me with a long-suffering expression like  _I'm_  the kid here when I have at least five years on him. The sweep of club light washes him violet, chartreuse-green, pink. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously!" I hiss, trying to make it sound pissed-off but it comes out a bit butthurt.

I look around for Jake and Ziggy so they can witness this but they've fucked off, probably somewhere getting luckier than me.

Man I fished a fucking doozie this time.

Said doozie runs a hand through his adorably indie hairstyle before seeming to remember it's set hard. Expressive little mouth pulling down in a pensive moue. Damn it he's so cute! Why why why! The child in me is stomping his horny little foot.

Finally he sighs angrily with a shake of his head, like I'm supposed to have got it, then goes to turn around and disappear into the mess of arms and legs that is the scene at Magenta on a Sunday night. I grab his wrist.

"Nope. C'mon princess, give me something here.  _You_  checked  _me_  out first, remember?"

He shakes me off with a cool look. "So what?"

My brain breaks. "'So what?'! What world are you living in where that doesn't equal 'come over here, grind on me for a bit, then take me home'?"

He scoffs. The track changes: something even dirtier. Someone's rubbing up along my spine…but I'm not interested, not yet, not until Red gives me my answers.

"Ok,  _Carson_ , try this. How would you take a boy like me home?"

"Uhh, in a cab? What, you twinks only travel by private jet these days?"

"Ha! Close. Try Bentley. And boys like me only go Upper East Side, not some shitty Meatpackers flat. 'These days'? Listen to yourself" –curl of the lip- "You're past it."

"I'm 26 you little asshole!" I gasp, "and my apartment's in SoHo!"

"How original. A gay waiter who lives in SoHo." He rolls his eyes, "You're yesterday's queer from that lip piercing to your Oxfords, sweetheart"

I let go of his wrist, mildly disgusted.

"So who are you hoping to pick up?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "Bigger fish than you."

He turns to go once more, then pauses, flicks a glance over his shoulder. "Free tip? Buy a new jacket, Carson. Thanks for the  _daiquiri_."

Ok I deserved that. The daiquiri wasn't exactly my sexiest come-on, but he'd struck me as such a sweet kid at first glance. Preconceptions officially shattered.

I pull the finger at his retreating back to make myself feel better.

"Wow, knock 'em dead, Carter," Jake drawls in my ear, arm winding itself around my neck in a way I used to find annoying but now is just Jake. He's got a puppy in tow already, some hulking Neanderthal with a dentist-perfect smile and the sexiest fucking shoulders. Fuck my life.

"Where'd you find that?"

He gives me a wink. "Oh this little thing? Hiding out all alone on the edge of the dance floor. Want a test drive?"

Neanderthal shoots me a look that says if I crash this party for him he'll find a way to kill me between here and his loft.

"Uh no. Thanks. I think I'm done for the night."

"Aw sourpuss. You know I hate to see your pretty face go to waste."

I bat his cloying hands away from me. "Oh it's a fucking waste alright. What's your secret?"

"Moi?" I hate it when he does that. The closest to France Jake's ever been is the French knot complimenting his YSL suit.

My friend leans in close to leer, breath smelling suspiciously musky which makes me half-revolted and half-turned on.

"I'd tell you…but I'd have to kill you," he says playfully, then shakes off the camp when he realises I'm not having fun. "Oh alright, Dusty and me are gonna split, you want to share a cab?"

Like fuck I do. "I think I'll walk." I shared a cab with Jake and one of his hook ups once before. There are some mistakes you don't make twice.

"Your loss."

He breezes away with 'Dusty', leaving our mutual friend and co-worker Jess in his wake. We both watch him saunter away, exuding the sort of confidence that only materially rich, inherently slutty queens in their prime can.

"This sucks, why do gays like trip-hop so much?" Jess moans, plastering herself along my side. Jess is 5'4 so she's learned to shelter against me when we go clubbing, elsewise she's prone to copping elbows to the head. Unfortunately it translates to invasions of personal space just about everywhere, including at our workplace.

I tug one of the enormous earrings that's got caught up in her blond hair, clucky and affectionate now that I'm out of the zone. When I'm in prowl mood I'm ashamed to say Jess usually gets crushed beneath the tires, abandoned on the sidelines with the other fag-hags.

She looks up at me muzzily. "We could make out?"

I shake my head. "Feeling kind of gay tonight, Jess."

"You feel gay every night," she pouts, play punching me in the shoulder.

"Jess, you don't think I'm a cliché do you? I'm fresh and hot and player?"

"Baby you're crazy-fine like strawberry wine," she sing songs, already swaying drunkenly as an invitation to dance with her. I'm struck with a vision -another night curling up next to Jess in her loft and watching movies together until we fall asleep -and feel a hole open up in the pit of my stomach.

"No. I'm bailing."

Her eyebrows pinch together in confusion. "But Carter, Frankie…"

I crane my neck over the crowd -not so hard when you're 6'3". Frankie is leaning against the bar with the rest of the crew from Beau, long legs crossed under a shimmery skirt. She's preoccupied with showing off the ring to anyone who'll listen. I can make out Ziggy's tell-tale fro bent in close with some lucky stranger; Jenna's petite frame further down the bar.

"Guess things will change now that Frankie's leaving, huh."

Jess strokes my cheek knowingly, or possibly she's just drunk and handsy. "This won't change baby. We'll always have…Magenta."

"Casablanca. Rick to Ilsa."

She giggles. "Ok Mr. Movie Buff, you can take me home."

I sigh. "Sorry Jess, I think I'm going to walk. I spent the last of my change on that little…penis."

"Yeah, we saw the daiquiri. Smooth."

"You don't think I wanted to get him Chivas?" I whine, "I'd love to be the guy who buys Chivas, Jess. My life is pain. Poor, bohemian pain."

"Poor fag, pain. Agony…'fagony'," Jess slurs.

"Points for trying, Your Drunkness." Ok, I'm blowing this twinkie-pit. Go froth over Frankie, it might be the last chance you get."

We stand for a moment. Neither of us say what we're thinking. Because Frankie, Frankie's getting out. Me and Jess, we'll still be here, at Magenta, going through the circus same time next week, and the week after, and the week after…

-:-:-:-

Ziggy is busy viciously steaming milk for lattes and I can barely hear him over the low grinding noise of the coffee machine. "We're going to Magenta tonight, you in?"

I consider it with a tilt of my head. "Maybe. Milo is getting pretty pushy with the rent so…"

Ziggy nods, fluffing around with his decorations -teaspoon, marshmallow, shortbread, chocolate powder. The milk starts to squeal. I don't honestly know how he holds the steel jug -that milk gets so scalding hot. Well actually, I do. I've seen the callus on that hand, and its twin where Ziggy clutches the metal tamp.

"I know that game," he says distractedly, "Weren't you going to get a job at Sarenson's?"

I feel a sigh coming on. Tony Sarenson's is a boutique I pass on my route from work to the subway. I drafted up a resume and never got the guts to hand it in once I realised I had nothing of quality to wear to an interview. You can't wear Target to a father-son shop that imports its textiles from Milan.

"Bounced," I lie to Ziggy, rather than admit I have a life-impeding fear of being shabbily dressed.

"Too bad bro. Maybe next time."

"Yeah."

He shoots me a killer grin. "One latte, one long black, and fresh-pressed orange juice with raw egg."

I stick my tongue out. "Rank. Who drinks that?"

"Yoga freaks," he says, jerking his head in the direction of table fourteen where a typical yuppy couple are enjoying their power breakfast -him engaged in the morning paper and her in a gold compact. I noticed his suit the second he walked in -Tom Ford, I'm betting. I'd know those sharp lapels anywhere…

"Don't burn yourself," Ziggy says with a sly grin.

"Fuck you," I say, loading up my tray with an equally obnoxious smile.

Working at Beau has its perks. For one, the staff aren't hard to look at. Beau's kind of an unofficial eye-candy restaurant-café. Frankie always says it's where the rejects of the Union Square Starbucks end up. We're all from out of state, small-town hicks who came here thinking we were going to get scouted. Frankie's pretty but too short to be a model; Ziggy did a Target ad and nothing since; Jake's claim to fame is that his hand was once used in a Cartier billboard; and well, I just wanted a job in retail but I'm just as much of a failure as them.

Still, we're a pretty tight crew and we have the run of the floor, whatever shifts we want, which, for a pay-to-pay guy like me means breakfast and lunch  _and_  dinner when I can. Plus, the tips are awesome. Rather than hitting Beau to be seen, foodies and suits alike hit Beau to do some seeing. And some squeezing. And maybe get a little squeeze in return. Nothing too heavy, but flirting is part of the gig and Beau prides itself on being queer friendly, so every Thursday afternoon I bring my middle-aged accountant his cappuccino and ask him if he's been a good boy, and every Friday morning I let a bunch of giggling twinks check my ass out while I scrub tables.

I round one of Jess's busy tables and head for table fourteen next to the window. The girl's sunglasses almost take up her entire face but her mouth is certified collagen-perfect.

Just as I get the weight of her omelette dish in one hand, trying not to feel the hot china against my forearm, she reaches to grab the orange juice and the drinks tray lilts dangerously to one side, latte wobbling.

I cringe before the heavy silver cutlery even hits the floor. I have done this so many times I know the trajectory of the fork; the sound of two exquisitely-poached eggs bursting open on impact with the polished-concrete floor to leave a stunted, yolky smear; the sound of fresh hollandaise sauce dripping into someone's lap as I overcorrect and try to get the last bald piece of toast to just  _stay on the plate_.

On the plus side, I only slop a little of their coffee order, the spill soaked up by the neat little napkins Ziggy thoughtfully folds onto the saucers just for me.

"For fuck's sake!"

It's a roar. I knew it would be. That lap is Tom Ford after all. I'd be furious too. His girlfriend is already staring determinedly at her Blackberry as he shoots out of his chair with a scrape-squeal. This is going to be ugly.

If Frankie was on shift she'd be diving in to save me with all the right protocol, drinks comp'd, dry cleaning, one of the dish boys out to mop. Instead I get Jenna, slouched over the maître d' stand and cracking gum like this is really shitty entertainment for her. Over behind the bar Ziggy shoots me a pained look, hair plastered to his forehead with damp from the steam, hands relentlessly busy with tamp and machine.

So no cavalry then.

Shit, shit, shit.

"I'm so sorry sir!" I scramble to say, whipping out the dinner serviette tucked in the back of my short-apron. Breakfast is a paper-napkin deal and those babies aren't going to soak up this mess. His hands get in the way, automatically trying to keep my inept swipes away from his crotch and at the same time trying to grab the white cloth out of my hands. He's got Chef's best hollandaise on the hem of his designer polo too. I could just cry.

I start bleating apologies instead, almost throwing the serviette at him, bobbing up and down between table and floor and trying to pick up bits of egg uselessly, offering breakfast 'on me' which makes no sense since it's not my fucking restaurant -and will you still be wanting the coffees? No of course not you stupid fool- apologising to his girlfriend until she finds sauce on her crocodile-skin shoes and starts to wail.

I can feel my face getting hot as I break away from the disaster zone. I don't even meet Ziggy's sympathetic eyes as I pass the bar, tunnel visioned on making it through the kitchen flap.

"Fucking useless," Antony drawls, yanking the mess out of my hands and throwing it into the sink. Paul, our dish-pig, shoots him a filthy glance as it slops over his apron. "Count yourself lucky Chef's not in, Carter. He likes seeing you cry. Order up!"

One of the casual girls saunters in, effortlessly layers several scorching-hot plates of Full English on her skinny arms and disappears out the flap with a swing of her shiny ponytail.

I kick the mise en place cabinet open, shoving the spay'n'wipe under one arm along with a wad of paper towel. "That was one fucking time and I'd burnt myself!"

Antony chuckles from where he's busy prepping. "You burnt yourself 'cos you were a shit waiter."

"He still is a shit waiter," Paul contributes, not looking up from his suds and dishes.

"Don't listen to them, Carter," says Frankie, elbowing out of the back where we get changed before shift. Her forearms are wet from disinfecting and her white blouse is still unbuttoned. I watch Antony's eyes flicker over the pink flash of bra before he turns back to his preparation. Chef tears him a new one if they run out of veg during the lunch service.

"Ziggy makes his coffee too hot. We all burn ourselves at least once."

I sigh. "It's not Ziggy's fault. I am a shit waiter."

"Hey, save the dramatics" Antony says, pointing his knife at me, "I hate it when you and Jake fag up my kitchen."

"Chef's kitchen," I hear Paul mutter.

"Hey," Frankie soothes, ever the mother hen, pulling the paper towel out of my hands and replacing it with a blue chux. "Don't listen to these losers, they're just jealous it's your cute butt out there getting tips."

"Speaking of tips," Jenna says, breezing in through the barista's door which means she was probably taking advantage of the empty floor to chat up Ziggy. I can see a shrivelled piece of gum lolling around behind her sharp teeth as she talks. "You're comping table fourteen's meals and coffees."

"What? Jenna! Don't be a bitch."

"No," Jenna says unfazed, already tapping away at her iPhone. "This is the second time this week. You can pay in tips or I can dock you but you're paying. You can make it up Friday."

Friday. Wait,  _Friday_!

"Jenna I have Friday off. I'm visiting my sister in Vermont."

She fixes me with a hard stare. "Ha! Touching. I'll see you Friday at six pm for dinner service."

"You can't do that. I checked that out with Claire months ago!"

"I'll go clean up," Frankie says, eyes bugging behind Jenna's back. The flap swings behind her. I can tell Antony is watching us warily over his prep.

Claire's the owner but she's only ever in on Saturday breakfasts while her kids have their squash lessons nearby. Claire trumps Jenna but it's Jenna you'll have to deal with every service if you go behind her back.

Jenna jams her iPhone up between her ear and her shoulder, pulling at the cuff of her uniform. "Carter, you see this badge?" She flicks her shiny gold manager pin.

I sigh. "Yes."

"Well Claire gave me this pin after two years of working at Beau because I was the best waiter she'd ever seen, and because she trusts that I know how to organise people. That's why  _I'm_  the manager, and  _you're_  a waitress, who can't even keep her plate level after five years of working the same shift."

I feel my hackles rise, face flushing even darker. Her phone is dialling.

"Now Frankie is going to clean up your mess and make sure Mr and Mrs Hollandaise stay for complimentary coffees," she says in a bored tone, "and then you're going to go put sixty dollars in the till under orange juice, decaf latte, long black, vegetarian omelette, and Full English with extra mushrooms, and then you're going to sign out and I will see you 6 pm Friday." Her eyes track lazily down my spattered front. "Now go clean that shit off your shoes, it's un-fucking-professional- yes, hello! No I'll hold," she finishes cheerily, already disappearing back through the flap.

Antony makes a hissing noise before turning back to his work.

"Fuck!" I scream, slamming my way out back and ripping my apron off, ditching it against the wall with an unsatisfying 'flump'.

After a few anonymous staff complaints, the change-room got partitioned by gender. The girls got the toilets and the guys got left with the disorganised storage area with the walk-in fridge up the back.

I yank on the industrial steel and shove my head inside, willing myself not to explode.

"Hey Carter, how's things?"

I look up, startled. Jake's leaning against one of the stainless steel racks, tapping his cigarette ash against a tray of salting aubergines and looking as impossibly cool as ever in a hoodie and a leather jacket I could have sex with.

"Dude that's gross," I moan.

"No," he laughs, "That's gross." He gestures with his cigarette at the smear of sauce that's somehow managed to get on the fly of my jeans.

"Aw mannn." I swipe uselessly at the denim with the palm of my hand but the oil's settled into the fabric well and truly and left a suspect-looking stain.

"Was that Jenna I heard tearing strips of some unfortunate."

"Yeah," I breathe, stepping into the fridge and leaning my head against one of the icy shelves. "My sister's going to kill me."

Jake nods.

"Ok. Tell me."

He grins. "Tell you what?"

"You know what. Tell me."

He puts his cigarette out and flicks it under the shelving unit next to a near-liquid rotten tomato. I never realised how filthy this place was until now. Well, no, I probably realised it was filthy when I walked in on Jake and Ziggy having sex in here on my second day. Turns out food hygiene isn't very high on the concern register for horny guys.

"Even if I have to kill you?"

"It's gotta be better than here. What is it? Hustling? I can hustle. I've seen 'My Private Idaho.'"

Jake snorts. "I'm not hooking, Carter. God, that's so noughties, what's wrong with you."

"Where'd you get the suit then?"

"I bought it."

I scoff. "You bought an Yves Saint Laurent suit on an 18-dollar-an-hour salary?"

"Has anyone ever told you, you have an incredible eye for clothes?"

I shrug. "My dad was a tailor. Fess up."

He rolls his eyes. "Ok, but don't freak out."

I feel my chest puff up with indignation. "I'm not a  _gimp_ , Jake, jeez. Tell me, I won't freak."

"Ok. I might have…" Jake gives me a long searching look, "done a few pornos," he says breathily, then promptly looks interested in his nails.

"Porn?" I say dully, "You do porn? You're a porn star."

"Shh shut up," he hisses, "I don't  _do_  porn, and I'm not a porn star, I'm a porn  _actor_. Sometimes… More like an extra." He shakes his perfectly-styled, blond head. "It's just a few hundred dollars here and there."

"F- hundred dollars?" I choke.

Jake nods. "Yeah. Just for my rent, so I can buy the 'nice things' you know."

Oh, I know. "What do you…what do you, you know, do?" I ask, scandalised. I'm starting to see it now. Jake's cute little body getting bent over a desk by some hairy 'teacher' in a cheap suit too short in the arms. Something cheesy on the chalkboard like 'Sex Ed'.  _Oh my god._  "Oh my god."

Jake laughs nervously, picking at his gorgeous jacket. "I just…you know, have sex with some of the 'up and cummers'."

My eyebrows shoot upwards. "Up and…"

"Up and cummers, the guys trying to make a name in the business. I mean, it's not so big here as like, San Fernando, so the pool is pretty shallow. But the guys just starting out on the scene, they need a cute twink to 'prove' themselves on and then if the clip sells they get requested by a name actor."

I gasp. "And you're that twink?"

He laughs again but he isn't blushing I realise. "Sometimes. I mean, I'm a bit thin you know, so most of the time they just use me in the background. Of like," he lowers his voice, "an orgy."

Something dawns on me. "Oh my god, Jake. What have you been in? Shit what if I've-"

He cackles. "Oh babycakes, don't worry about that. I'm sure it's nothing your tender eyes have seen."

"Hey!"

"Sorry Carter, but you're as straight-up-vanilla as they come, it's obvious."

I find myself crossing my arms over my chest protectively, but also because the cold of the fridge is starting to settle under my flesh.

"Nothing about me is obvious," I mutter bitterly.

Jake claps his hands on my shoulders. It's meant to be condescending but I have about 4 inches of height on him. "No baby, you're not obvious at all. That's why I don't think you want to do this."

"Why? Is it bad?  _Did you get peed on_?"

"What?" he sputters, "What, Carter no! It's a softcore studio. The hardcore stuff is for the boys in the Valley." He fiddles with the corner of his cigarette pack. "Ok, have you seen…Pork Pals 4?"

I burst out laughing so hard I can see him wincing away from the spit. "Pork -hahaha- Pork Pals?"

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I'm in that, about twenty minutes in getting my ass eaten out behind Patrick Bone."

I stop laughing immediately, sucking in a startled breath of cold air. "You…you've met Patrick Bone?"

He nods smugly. "In the flesh, so to speak."

I suppress a full body shiver. Patrick Bone is the ten inches of my tween fantasies. The barebacking, 6' 4 feature of every torrent polluting my parents' computer since age fourteen.

I'm already patting all my pockets looking for my notepad and pen. "Ok. Where's it at?"

"Whoah, settle champ. It's not for everyone. Though…" he gives me an appreciative once over. "You could definitely do it."

I grin. "So give me a number."

"How about I do you one better." He whips a black card out the back of his jeans. I'm about to say something about carrying a porno card around when I notice the name in glossy black letters against the matte paper.

"Hard Pop Entertainment? I thought it was softcore."

He nods. "Oh it is. Robert -he's the director- will get you to sign a contract. You just tick what you want to do and don't tick anything nasty. If you tick the nasty stuff he'll pass you over to another studio."

"Are you trying to say this place has standards?" I can't keep the scepticism out of my voice but when Jake reaches to take the card back I snatch it away.

He chucks a damp cloth at me which I use to scrub down my jeans and shoes and then we step out of the fridge together, Jake propping the door open just a crack just to mess with Chef.

"How do I get the ball rolling?"

"That's the easy part. First you have to get a clean report from a clinic."

I nod. There's barely a boy in Manhattan who'll go ass up without getting your sexual credentials these days.

Jake continues, stripping off his jacket -DKNY I decide. "Then you submit a few pictures. They ask for four but you can do more if you want."

I swallow. "Naked pictures?"

Jake gives me a look. "No, Carter, pics with your favorite pajamas on, that's what's selling in gay porn these days."

"Ok, ok, then what?"

"Then baby," Jake says, tying his apron off. Jake is the only guy at Beau who can make the long-apron look cool. "If they like you, you get a call."

We push out into the kitchen. Antony and Paul are away from their stations and Chef's waiting next to them, round face practically glowing with malicious glee. The time-old pantomime starts: Chef mock-burning his hand on a frypan, lip quivering, starting to ball, while Antony flutters around him cooing. Paul is making an annoying keening sound I suppose is meant to be a violin.

Jake shoots me a sly look as he backs out through the flaps. "Better to burn up than fade away, right Carter?"

-:-:-:-

Milo catches me in the hallway trying to balance some last-minute groceries on my hip and get my key in the shitty old deadlock. The cheap, yellowing light bulbs don't do his complexion any favors, his dark cheeks pitted with acne scars.

Milo has a bad leg which he reckons got broken during a stampede for Queen tickets in 1974, which I guess is his 'Nam story because every time we get a new tenant I can hear him bemoaning the two steel pins under his knee. The building has crappy heating too so he's always in pain, and in a foul mood. But anyway, usually I can hear him scrape-hop-dragging towards me. It's just my bad luck that this time I don't, and he's scanning down his little clipboard self-importantly before I can get through the door.

"You are late in rent again, Mr. Press."

"Yep, yes Milo, I am." I'm jiggering my key desperately in the lock. Milo takes the opportunity to crane his neck and perv on my groceries. I'm sure he's looking for industrial sized lube and a copy of Playgirl. Milo straight up told me when I moved in that he only accepted me because he thought I'd be a courteous knitting companion for Mrs Milo. When that never eventuated he started suspecting me of hosting deviant S&M parties in my peeling-carpet one bed/one bath.

Milo sniffs obnoxiously. "Why I smell cat food?"

"Uhh, hard times?"

He narrows his beady eyes. "You cannot trick Milo! You have cat! You can't have cat, I forbid."

I roll my eyes. "How much extra?"

We're interrupted by the clatter of the Spanish family that lives down the hall clambering up the stairwell. Milo's such a shit landlord he tried to fix the elevator himself and got it condemned. Only the crazy old witch in 42B is game enough to still ride it. You can hear her sometimes, the metal trolley shrieking in its brackets all the way down. She's arthritic as fuck but she must be pretty flexible to get under the caution tape.

Mrs. Jimenez says a shy hello as her kids scramble ahead of her carrying the shopping and Milo gives her his usual slimy greeting. Once her door shuts I can see the wheels in his head start turning.

"I no like especially cats, they make my wife sick."

I roll my eyes. "I've got…" I delve through my pockets for the last of my tip. "Twenty dollars."

"Twenty dollars and you not use hot water this week."

"What! Milo you cheapskate!"

There's no way he can monitor that, right? I imagine having a nice, hot shower, looking down and seeing Milo's beady black eye staring up at me from out of the drain…and feel all the hair stand up on my arms.

He glares at me, affronted. "I not cheapskate. I American citizen. I bargain."

"Fine, fine, god bless," I growl, handing over the cash and watching him pocket it greedily. He whips out one of the handkerchiefs he's always using to swab his greasy hairline.

"You are good boy, I let you pay rent on Friday."

My door swings open and I can see Milo's eyes drinking up every detail. Aside from the few suggestive tear-outs of football players who've probably never played football in their lives, it's pretty tame. Slightly sunken mattress, unmade bed, a fake plant in one corner, a lamp in the other.

"I appreciate that Milo," I say, pointedly edging the door shut so he'll piss off.

Milo nods to himself. "Yes, yes, I understand it's a slow week yes. But  _I_  have very busy week. Very nice Kurdish family needing place, I tell them maybe soon yes?"

 _Nice threat asshole. Subtle._  "You'll get your money Friday," I bite out, kicking the door shut even as I hear him reminding me once more -no hot water. I wait until I hear him limp away before I let out a frustrated groan.

"Fuuuuuck." I drag my feet towards the kitchen, dumping the groceries on the sticky counter.

Ham hops up to paw at the paper bag inquisitively. "Yeah, yeah, I'll fix you some din-dins you needy brute." I grab him up onto my chest and pat him too-rough the way he likes then go about scooping his disgusting food out into his bowl. I got each can for 30 cents because they expired yesterday. Welcome to my glamorous existence. Ham doesn't seem to mind, lost in his own world, gorging himself on reject spam.

I make myself a croque-monsieur -the only thing I can ever be screwed making after a long shift. Piece of white bread, ham, pre-shredded cheese, oven for ten minutes -it's the closest I'll get to being in Paris.

Well…maybe not.

I fiddle Jake's card out my back pocket and twiddle it between my thumbs and forefingers.

Ok.

Feet aching, I kick off my shoes, throw my belt somewhere in the direction of the chair I use to prop my uniform up, and collapse face first on my bed, breathing in the calming smell of my own funk and reaching under the metal frame for my laptop.

Hardpopentertainment dot com. One thing you can't pin Milo for is skimping on the internet service. The page loads within the second and blasts me with generic sex music while I jab at the mute key. The page is plain black, like the card with the studio name spelled out in glossy, metric font -something to appeal to minimalists and closet cases I guess. Me, personally I've never been turned away by the inviting image of a big, juicy uncut splashed across the entire screen.

I settle the laptop on my chest, ignoring the smell of stale grease and warily click enter.

A few images slide onto the screen. I make an impressed noise. "Ham come look at this, it's pretty tasteful." It really is. A black menu bar with The Men, Payment, In Store and Contact Us and below it a transitioning panel with some faceless abs and arms sliding in and out of focus. I find and click Employment and am confronted with a standard looking form -name, age, number, that sort of shit- a lengthy T&C section which I tick, and finally, a link to attach my photos.

"Ham, bring me the camera you lazy fuck." The oven bell goes. "Never mind, I'll get it while I'm up."

I fix my croque with a glass of milk while Ham pushes his food bowl across the linoleum, frantically licking dregs. "And that is why you're fat Hammy," I say around a mouth of cheesy bliss.

I grab my camera -last year's birthday present from mom, very thoughtful, equip your gay son with the perfect tool to further his innate exhibitionism- and check myself out in the mirror on the back of the door.

I'm halfway to calling Jake to ask him what type of photos I should be taking before I remember he'll be at Magenta, probably queening it up with some gorgeously-tanned stud on one arm and Ziggy on the other.

Instead I set the camera on top of my dresser and take a front-on in my black uniform slacks with my shirt open; a profile pick; and one of me sucking coyly on a finger and pushing my butt out. I don't know why I do that one, it just strikes me as something typical of nude shots on sites like Corbin Fisher.

I try jacking my dick for a while so I can take a cockshot but I'm so tired I end up just snapping a pretty pathetic picture of my dick at half-mast. I hook my camera up to my laptop before I can chicken out and hit send, staring at the cheerful 'Thank you for your submission!' message until my eyes blur, then go take the fucking hottest shower of my life.

 

 


	2. Bites

I've just gotten off the phone with my very disappointed, very accusatory sister after missing my nephew's birthday (which just so happens to constitute one half of my biannual home visit schedule) when I get the feedback from my pics.

It's not at all what I expected. I sort of nervously sat around all weekend checking to make sure my buck-naked ass didn't randomly pop up all over the web, but the email is short and professional: a list of documents, including this month's STI results, ID I need to bring, and an appointment with one Robert Greems, Director, and a brief message thanking me again for my pictures.

I expel a long breath, tapping the black business card against my lips thoughtfully.

Ok, fuck it. 9.30 am tomorrow.

_Better to burn up then fade away right Carter?_

**-:-:-:-**

I spend the night before doing emergency sit-ups, flicking through my magazine collection, and trying not to imagine Robert Greems as some grossly obese guy stroking off with a camcorder in one hand.

At 8.00 am the morning of I crack open the new, purpose-bought Gilette and shave so close it's a wonder I don't take the skin right off. The redness will just have to go down before the appointment. As an afterthought I shave the sporadic hair around my nipples since that has always annoyed me in porn.

"Forget it Ham," I say to the cat rubbing himself lustily against the bathroom doorframe, "I'm not shaving down there."

I end up choosing not to wear my boxers. It's seems more like something a porn star would do. Also, it's an inside-out day and I can appreciate that that might be a little too bohemian for adult entertainment. Pair of jeans, my best belt, and a jacket borrowed from Jake with a shearling collar that's 'so porn' according to him.

I feel really suspect on the train over to the Meatpacking District, like every neatly dressed businessman is staring at me and wondering if I'm doing porn, which is equal parts delighting and godthisisfucking _ridiculous_.

It's a brisk morning and the long walk up 9th Avenue leaves me flustered and sniffing furiously, my fingers stiff where they're tucked in the flimsy leather of my jacket pockets. I finally hit the building, a squat, typical, brown-brick warehouse with no lobby and a mess of steel fire escape down the façade. My eyes pick out the black logo of Hard Pop Entertainment amidst the crowded buzzer board and I jam my numb finger on the button.

There's no voice over but the door makes a mechanical unhinging sound and I notice a security camera tucked in the corner. I wave stupidly, then check that there's no one on the street watching me -just a few straggling office types with their eyes on their pagers- and duck inside.

Like my apartment building there's no elevator, it's too narrow, but unlike my apartment building everything looks clean and modern. No flickering blue fluorescent, no bum huddled under the phone bank. Even the carpet on the staircase is new.

Hard Pop Entertainment is on the fourth floor, sharing a bland and cramped, but more importantly  _clean_ , foyer-area with another studio listed on the brass plaque outside the landing as ' _Cream_ '. There's an Ikea love-seat, a row of chairs against one wall like you'd see in a medical waiting room, an overflowing vase of slightly old flowers, and an unattended reception. Just as I'm lowering myself to nervously perch on the love-seat, a girl bustles out from behind a door, still smiling from her conversation and I snap back up.

"Hi there! Cream or Hard Pop?" she asks, flopping down into her swivel-chair. I approach the desk warily.

"I have an appointment with Mr Greems?"

She looks unsurprised. "Oh you're one of Robert's boys huh. Hard Pop's just through there." She points with her biro at the left-most door. A wicked smirk spreads across her face. "Go on through, you won't walk in on anything this early."

Behind the door is a small office with two men chatting over a bigger, butcher reception with  _Hard Pop Entertainment_ engraved in massive letters on the glossy, dark surface. There's a small leather couch but instead of a row of chairs there are four doors with brass plaques, and a flat-screen TV on the wall showing a montage of unidentifiable flesh to muted music. Both men look up as I inch into the room, trying my hardest not to look nervous which somehow translates to walking like John Wayne.

"Carter Press?" says the man closest to me. He's one of those chubby queers, just a little bit overweight, blond hair pulled back in a greasy-looking tail. He has a Welsh accent.

"Are you…Robert?"

He laughs. "No, no. I'm Daz, the receptionist. We spoke on the phone confirming your appointment?" Oh. He gestures to the man behind the desk. " _This_  is your marvellous director."

I take in Robert Greems. He's stocky, straight-ish looking, with an attractive smear of dark stubble and thick hair swept away from his widow's peak. He's wearing a dull black jacket and turtle neck and looks sort of like an Ivy League professor from a 90s movie. He fixes me with an unnerving stare over his thin-rim spectacles, checking me out neutrally while I force a smile.

After a beat he smiles back, dropping whatever paperwork he was working on with a murmured comment to Daz who nods and disappears around the desk to take over while Robert strides out to shake my hand.

"I'm so glad you came, Carter, please come through. Daz will take your coat." I shrug out of my jacket and hand it to Daz then follow Robert through one of the doors. The others, I notice, are labelled Room Two, Director, and Makeup. "We'll be having your interview in Room One today," he says, twisting opening the door before me.

Room One immediately sets my heart to racing. Not because it's painted red or full of sex swings and naked guys, but because it's the neutrally decorated, single sofa room of every solo film I've ever watched. Beige wall, beige sofa…and facing the sofa, a simple steel-legged chair, a tripod with a mounted camera, and a big, black and white softbox -the type used to diffuse light.

"Scary right?" Robert says with a little smile, whipping out a clipboard and gesturing that I should make myself comfortable on the sofa.

I clear my throat. The clipboard makes me think, unwillingly, of my landlord Milo. "Uh, should I…"

"No, no. You can leave your clothes on for now. I take it you brought your ID and test results."

I nod, slipping the papers out of my back pocket and only just now realising how unprofessional it looks to have to unfold my CV.

Robert scans through all my paperwork, spending a long time checking the dates and results on my clinic report and nodding his head appreciatively. "No STI's so far. Good, good, that's what we like at Pop."

I give a weak laugh. "Cleaner is it?"

"What? Oh yes. You can if you want, choose to wear a condom if you're selected to be a part of one of our productions. Unlike the less reputable studios we like to provide those for you boys, so don't worry."

Some small knot of anxiety I didn't know I carried loosens in the back of my neck.

"So I see here you haven't been involved in porn before?"

"No. Nothing."

"I have to ask. Have you been involved in any other sex work not listed here?"

"Sex work like…?"

"Exotic dancing, escort services…"

"Oh," I shake my head, "No, I'm a waiter."

"Good, good. Ok! So…we loved your pictures," he says. His tone isn't particularly warm but it's not brusque and impersonal either. I find myself relaxing even when he pulls out some embarrassing A4 blow ups of me looking grainy and yellowish in my apartment lamp-light.

"Cool." God but I need a drink of water though.

As if he can mind read Daz pokes his head through the door after a short rap with a tray of drinks.

"Scotch or water?"

"Water," I blurt and Daz laughs.

"Good boy. I always worry about the ones that want Scotch before noon."

Daz leans over the pictures as he passes Robert a tumbler, eyes zeroing in on the one of me sucking my finger. He snickers. "Oh my, you are a funny one aren't you. Robert, Tanner faxed through those result you wanted, I put them on the book."

"Thank you, Daz, I'll be out in a minute."

Robert shuffles the pictures back into a folder and draws out a comprehensive-looking wad of forms. "Now this is the important part." He fingers the first forms out for me to see, "We can update this part here at any time, and Daz is always changing it around to suit the trends anyway so don't worry if you think you'll change your mind later.

"Now I'm sure you already know, at Hard Pop we pride ourselves on being a more softcore-oriented studio, so you can mark boxes 12 through 20 if you like but if you're looking for that kind of work you'd be better off going some place like Blue or Lucas."

He shuffles the paper around to face me, drawing his thick index finger down the page.

"Now this part here is our contract. We comply with industry standards, and once you sign we keep this on file for you here and it validates your consent to be filmed, understand?"

I nod. My mom is going to kill me.

"It's all in the contract as you'll see in a moment when I leave you alone to read, but I have to make sure you understand that we portray acts between consenting adults, and that because we hold a softcore license we can't portray any scenes of violence." He points at a paragraph on the third page. "It's important you read this. According to the current law, restraining your partner even just by say, pinning his wrists to the bed, falls into the hardcore category, you understand."

"Yes."

"Good. Ok, this section here is waiving your rights to discrimination. Now we only have that in there so that you can tick a box under the orientation part of the contract…" He pauses, licking his fingers to flip through the wad of paper and find the section in question. There are four boxes:  _Straight_ ,  _Gay_ ,  _Bisexual_. There's no  _Undecided_ , and  _Lesbian_  has been blocked out by some pragmatic person's Sharpie censorship.

Robert pushes on. "Here is the information you'll want about payment. Now we don't pay as much as say, Scorpion, but we do pay more than the boy-girl studios and we pay you a lot more than the mass-producers like Vivid." He says Vivid like you'd say 'anal leakage'. "Because we pay more we expect you to be on-call, on-time, and keep yourself clean. Do you have any-" his eyes shoot to my lip, "- _other_  piercings?"

"No."

"Good. You can keep that if you like but we find our viewers prefer an… _undecorated_  face."

I tongue my piercing once he's busy looking down. Right, that's coming out then.

"Well I think I covered everything. I'll leave you to it." He gets up. "Can I get you anything else? Coffee? Tea?"

"No, that's fine thanks," I say, emphasising my point with a sip of water.

The second the door clicks shut I get up to check the camera's not rolling. I saw a porno like that once where the guy didn't know he was being filmed. Then again, it was kinda bad form beating off in a dentist's chair.

The most interesting part of the paper is the 'Etiquette' section. There's a whole lot of lovingly typed up, graphic descriptions of anal prep and care as well as thoughtful suggestions for maintaining personal grooming and hygiene.

I make a note to book a wax even though the thought of it makes my balls tingle with displeasure.

I skim the fine print, sign and date about five times. When I come to the checklist Jake warned me about I find that I don't understand some of the terms. Boxes 1 to 12 are tame, overlapping sort of stuff. Open to receptive sex, open to having sex without barrier protection, open to performing oral sex, open to ejaculating on camera. I leave boxes 12 through 20 but get stumped on the last box:  _Bukkake_. I know I've heard it somewhere, I just can't pinpoint it. Maybe Jake is right. My tastes do, it seems, run vanilla. I leave it empty just in case.

The last sheet is a simple Q&A. About how many sexual partners have you had? Do you have regular sex with an HIV positive partner? Are you lactose-intolerant? Are you allergic to latex? Do you have trouble maintaining an erection? The page looks so miserably bare that I end up writing 'allergic to "Elastoplast"' under  _Other_. It's been so long since school that my neatest attempt at handwriting looks squat and shaky.

By the time Robert reenters the room I've gotten quite comfortable with the oddly bold questions. All that shrinks up and dies once I see what he's carrying. A shiny plastic box with a shiny plastic handle. And he looks vaguely pissed off too.

I wait for him to whip the dildo out but instead he sets the box down next to his chair and grabs up the paperwork.

"All good?" he asks with just a hint of exasperation.

"Yep. What's uh, 'bukkake'? Sex with a Japanese guy?"

I'm ready to laugh it off but Robert doesn't even flinch. "You consent to have a group of men ejaculate on your face."

"Oh." I think I feel a blush coming on.  _Japanese men?_

"So then," he says, clapping his hands on his knees, "do you think you'd be up for a solo today? We can film immediately, but if you'd prefer we can wait until lunch, that's when Holly from Makeup gets in and she'll be happy to clean you up if you like," he explains.

"Um, I think I'd rather just, you know, get it over with," I sputter.

Robert gives me a kind grin, apparently pleased. "That's what we like to hear. So if you're ready…" He gets up, pushing the chair out of the way and moving behind the enormous camera, twisting at the levers of the tripod, messing with the sci-fi-huge lens. I feel my heart pounding in my throat as the red light flicks on.

Robert coughs and takes a sip of his drink then disappears, hunched behind the camera. "Ok so you can look at the camera but don't 'acknowledge' it. This isn't a gonzo, it's a solo. You can take as long as you like so don't worry if it takes a while to get hard, I'll just edit it out later if it drags alright?"

I'm really wishing I'd gone the Scotch about now.

"Should I…take my clothes off?"

"It's up to you. Of course, if you don't get any viewers then you might not get callback…" He's clear enough in his own way I guess. I nod, take a deep breath and pull my shirt up with one hand, using the other to drag over my six-pack the way I've seen Patrick Bone do maybe a hundred times.

"Wait, stop."

My stomach sinks. Well that was a short career.

"Relax. You don't have to 'show'. We want this to be about natural, fluid pleasure. None of the superficial stuff you see the pay-per-view boys doing." He heaves a sigh. Well this is going swimmingly. He catches the devastated look that must have slipped through my guard and shakes his head. "No, it's my fault. I'm sorry, that was unprofessional of me. A director should never bring his mood on set. Here, would you like some music?"

I nod, tugging at the hem of my shirt. He walks over to fiddle with a panel on the wall and generic, soft bass track fills the room. It's not bad.

"Ok let's start again. If you need lube it's in the Pink Box." He nudges said box with the side of his shoe.

Ok, round two. I leave my shirt and go for my fly like I would if I was at home, in my apartment, with Ham shut in the bathroom so he doesn't accidentally see. I feel myself grinning at that.

"Good," Robert breathes.

I scrape my fingers down through my nest -shivering at the not-quite-pleasure- and pull my dick out, open my eyes and watch my hand pump lazily down over the shaft, circling the head with a thumb before it gets too sensitive.

It takes a little while longer than usual to get hard but when I do the feeling's somehow more intense, my hips twitching up, twitching my thighs apart so that my jeans pull uncomfortably against my ass. I can feel myself starting to flush, my spine starting to get liquid.

I tug my dick against my stomach, play my fingers down the underside, over the vein -something which pushes my boundaries. I'm never sure if it's too much or too little but it makes me squirm, starts the chain reaction of dark, throbbing pleasure behind my balls.

There's a moment of fear where I remember Robert and the camera, just a meter away, staring at me as I pull on my cock; become aware that at some point my mouth has fallen open and I've started grinding around on the sofa cushions…but I don't feel like I'm going to lose my hard-on so I let my eyes fall shut and just forget again, concentrate on my palm getting slicker, rub just under the head, minute, repetitive movements that usually quicken up to a perfunctory orgasm. But for now I keep it slow and torturous, drive myself crazy so I don't have to pretend, even though I sort of never wanted to share exactly 'what I do' with anyone.

Eventually I need more. I'm starting to sweat and I want two hands in there so I push my shirt up into my mouth, keeping my eyes firmly closed, and start the building, sliding rhythm of hand-over-hand, red-hot currents sparking up from the base of my spine, along the back of my legs. The sticky noise it makes as I corkscrew each fist down over the head -pressure just barely there- always drives me wild but knowing someone else can hear it makes it hotter again.

"Take your shirt off now," I hear Robert whisper. Luckily I'm hot enough that it doesn't shock me into stopping, even though it's just as creepy as I thought it would be. I pant at the camera for a moment, realising I don't know how long I'm supposed to play this out at all. Robert said it was ok to take my time, but I'll be fucked if I don't feel close to spurting already.

My shirt gets jerked off by the collar and thrown on the floor in an unceremonious lump. Without thinking I swing one leg up onto the sofa so that I'm side-on to the camera and then, realising how awkward that is I draw it up to bend at the knee and let my other leg fall open so my dick's back on show.

Leaning back on one elbow I spit in my left hand, sort of wishing I hadn't got myself into such an uncomfortable position. It's hard to balance on one forearm while I stroke myself, but the angle must be good because Robert doesn't stop me, just adjusts the camera.

It's not long before I start jacking for real, the vivid slapping noise making my face feel too hot, my back bowing up on the more intense strokes. I might be at it for five minutes, or one, I have no idea but I'm shocked into a grunt when I start to come, stomach tensing so hard it stings, my bent leg jerking up involuntarily, raising my lower back so that I come hot on my chest.

I find myself rolled over on my side, eyes squeezed shut as I come down with both hands in the fly of my jeans soothing against the final thrills.

Robert mutters some soft encouragement, doing something with his camera to get a better angle of my tousled head hanging partway over the sofa.

I flop onto my back with an explosive sigh.

"Don't move," the director says. I stay very still, breathing, as he rifles through the Pink Box and comes out with a pump-bottle of something ominously labelled  _Honey_.

"What the-"

"You're just a little lite," he says reassuringly, pumping the gel into his hand and then flicking it alongside the come on my chest. I dab at some.

"Wow, this is spunk?"

He snorts. " _Fake_  spunk. It's alright. Just, next time, don't masturbate the night before you do a solo and you should be able to drop a heavier load."

"Ok, sure." I grin. Next time?

Robert moves over me, taking pictures of my spent cock, the sporadic dribble of drying come from pubes to chest. Finally he asks me to put one arm behind my head and smile and touch my dick. These are my 'model shots' he tells me.

Finally I can wipe off with some tissues which go straight into a bin bag, and then I'm cramming my shirt back over my head and determinedly annoying the funky smell of my orgasm and something else alkaline and unappealing that I think is the 'honey'.

Sitting up I can't help but look to see if Robert's got wood, but no, nothing. Somehow that cheers me up.

"Ok," says Robert, taking a seat once more as I button up my fly. "You did really well, Carter. Better than. I'll be doing some editing with our tech guy Briar, later this afternoon, and the video should be up within 24 hours. If we get enough bites we'll get you back in here to make a movie. How's that sound?"

"Awesome." I grin.

"Give these to Daz on the way out, he'll see that you get paid. Pleasure to work with you Carter, I'm sure we'll be speaking again soon."

I shake his hand and stumble awkwardly back out into the reception area where Daz -idly chatting with someone on the phone- instantly hangs up and greets me with a big smile. He slaps my borrowed jacket over the counter between us.

"How'd it go? Bust a nut?"

I laugh. "Oh god this is crazy."

"Boy, this is porno," Dav says with a smile. "And you just popped your adult entertainment cherry. How do you feel?"

"Hysterical, dirty…still a bit turned on? My Mom's not going to see this is she?"

"Ha, maybe."

I groan.

"Want me to give you a porn name? I mean, we'd never put your surname up on the site but if you're afraid of her googling 'Carter + gay solo' then we can give you something naughty to call yourself."

"Like Patrick Bone?"

Daz wrinkles his nose. "That dinosaur? Sweets, do you even watch porn?"

"Do I look like I need to?"

His eyebrows shoot up and then his eyes track down my body, eyes twinkling. "No…no you most certainly do not."

I laugh again and hand over my paperwork, waiting, and watching the flow of images on the TV screen while Daz types stuff up.

"Ok so that's your consent done, and your contract and your profile. Allergic to Elastoplast? Ok babe, I'll remember that if we're playing nurses."

"Yeah, uh, well I just thought, you know, full disclosure." God I'm an idiot.

"Uh huh. Ok, so this is your member code so you can set up an account at home and watch all the Hard Pop videos free of charge, keep track of when you need to supply a new health certificate -there's loads of handy stuff like that." He shoves one of the black cards into my hand with a number scrawled in white ink on the back. "Your solos should register within four to five hours before they go live for streaming, so if there's a serious problem you can call me and Robert will pull it, he's a delight like that.

"And  _this_  is your check! So that's $400 today for the solo. Well done."

 _Four_ \- I feel a surge of irrepressible glee bunching up in my chest. I feel like I could crow. Four  _hundred_  dollars?

"Wow. Thanks. This is…"

"What you're worth babe. Don't forget this isn't charity. You worked hard for that money. Now go home, take that silly thing out your lip and wait for the call."

I mutter another thanks, staring at the check in my sweaty hands as I push through the door and into the foyer where the girl who first greeted me is busily tapping away at her computer and speaking rapid Spanish into her headpiece.

Two school girls are sitting on the Ikea love-seat painting each other's nails and they look up as I walk past, headed for the stairwell.

**-:-:-:-**

"We're not going to let this go to our heads ok Ham?" I say, shoving a croque-monsieur in the oven. "You're already pretty conceited." I scruff his head so hard it cramps my knuckles and he laps it up, motor-purr going.

My check from Hard Pop is on the fridge under a Lobster Shack magnet. I can't decide whether I want to use it to buy Egyptian Cotton sheets for my bed or pay my backlog of rent. I count out this week's tips with a satisfied smile. I took Jake's advice and blew my savings on a perfectly-tailored black Armani button-down, a haircut and a new pair of jeans. I'd never been so flooded with tips. It's a cycle, I've realised. You're hot, you get money out of it, spend it on being more hot, and the world throws money at you. For the first time in forever I can afford to get groceries, go out for Sunday night drinks with Ziggy and Jess,  _and_  pay my utilities.

Fuck. Yes. Porn.

Well, not exactly fuck yes, I think, sliding my dinner onto a plate and making a start on a salad (I figure now that I'm going to be rich I might as well start eating vegetables again). Every time I think about Robert Greems seeing my sweaty come-face I cringe, and my mind shies away from analysing it any further like it's considerately blocking out a past trauma.

Plus, I keep compulsively checking my account to see if my video is getting a response, but I can't bring myself to actually look a the footage, simply titled:  _Carter's First Solo_  -and Hard Pop doesn't use a view count system so I can't watch the numbers tick over which just drives me mad. I end up spending every hour outside of my shifts at Beau trawling through porn with my most critical eye, trying to find something popular which looks like whatever the fuck I did -awkwardly- on that sofa.

Ham gives a deafening meow and I startle out of my thoughts.

"Yeah, I know, 'Feed me you whiskerless jerk'. Salmon or Spam?" I hold up the tins for his approval. "How about both?"

No I don't know how he got so fat.

I'm slopping Ham's food into his bowl and craning my neck to read next week's roster on the fridge when my cell starts buzzing across the counter. The tin of cat food goes rolling along the floor as I scramble to wash my hands. I slap the phone to my ear, water dripping down my elbow.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Carter?"

It's Daz.

I let go of a shaky breath. "Yes, yep, that's me, Carter."

Low rumble of laughter. "Ok, want me to put you out of your misery?"

"Very much." Ham bumps up against me, angling for another tin of Spam.

"When are you free next?"

 

 


	3. At Your Service

"A girl saw my asshole today."

Daz hurriedly spits his coffee back into the mug, laughing. "Oh you cheeky thing. I didn't think you swung that way."

I shake my head. "I don't. She was a beautician." I shift uncomfortably from leg to leg to make it obvious.

Daz makes a sympathetic face. "Oh dear, I know that pain but it's the best thing you'll ever do in the business, I promise. The boys don't like hairy arses on their twinks these days."

"Who says I'm a twink?" I grimace, pulling underwear out of my tender ass-crack.

He plays with a bit of his longish hair. "Just over 70 percent of your reviewers, sweets. Shall I show you?" He taps away at his computer keyboard and cranks the screen my way. I lean over the counter to have a look and then flinch back as I'm greeted with the full-frontal model shots from the second solo I did on Tuesday.

When Daz called me the first time I'd originally thought I was getting a kindly let-down.

"We didn't get as many responses as we'd hoped," Daz said carefully. I felt my stomach sinking. "But don't worry. We still want you to come in and have another shot at it."

"What? Why? I suck," I said, kicking the side of the counter dejectedly.

Soft laughter. "Oh boy, no. Robert actually sees a lot of potential in you. He's even come around on the matter of that silly little piercing, it turns out a lot of your reviewers would like to see your cute, punk-rock ass get turned out."

"Whoa."

Daz pressed on. "Now we think the reason you didn't get so many hits is because we didn't have any useable model shots of you. They're not willing to pay premium rates for a boy who keeps his jeans on."

"Oh, ok, so you want me to come in again?"

"Yep, just like last time, early, while things are quiet. We'll get you set up for another solo. Would you be comfortable doing something on a bed?"

"Sure."

"Ok then! Oh and one last thing. Robert just wanted me to say that you might want to consider getting a tan. We're trying to keep your image away from…"

"Twilight?"

"Well not exactly, it's just cuter if you don't have tan lines. We already have a couple of surfer-types. Got a pen and paper? I'll give you a time."

So far it's been an easy gig. Two solos, both early enough in the morning that the studio's been empty, except for an awkward encounter with a well-built guy with a blond faux-hawk walking out of Room Two in nothing but a jockstrap.

For my second solo they brought in Briar, the tech guy, who was sour and snappish to have been called in early to do sound work on my performance. That time we filmed in Room Two which was a lot larger than Room One, more like a long, narrow-ish factory space divided up by stage partitions into three varying sets crowded with cameras and lighting. One, I noticed, was kitted out to look like a college shower room complete with polished benches and a football jersey hanging over an open locker door. Another looked like an outdoor jacuzzi set into a deck and surrounded by plants.

I ended up jerking off for Robert and Briar on the huge platform bed of Set A and was happy to see Briar stripping down the sheets for laundry immediately after I'd finished. I'd always kind of thought the guys in porn had to sit in each other's dried spunk to film.

I got the callback for that shoot just a day later, on break at work.

"A movie already?" I said into the phone around a mouthful of pastrami Antony'd put together for my lunch. Jake's head snapped around from where he was lolling against the dumpster, smoking and texting.

"Uh huh," Daz said cheerfully, "We can talk over the details once you come in. How's Thursday at six sound?"

Thursday night? I swallowed around a ball of nervousness bulging its way up my oesophagus. That would mean meeting actual porn stars- actors, whatever.

"Sounds great," I croaked, ignoring Jake's snickers.

And here I am, trying to come across as cool as a cucumber to Daz and shitting myself every time I hear something from Room Two where they're winding up a movie, dreading the moment when the door opens, and reading comments on my profile page at Hard Pop under The Men.

"No I can't look anymore," I say, pushing away from the counter.

Daz pouts. "Aw Carter, they're great, really great. We're marketing you to a very connoisseur audience."

"I'm not sure I want to know what that means…"

Before he can inform me, the door to Room Two bursts open and Robert storms out, hands full of camera parts with someone I guess is his assistant trailing behind him, arms full.

"Get me Michael from Vivid on the phone," he growls at Daz before disappearing into his office with his lackey. I see a flash of illuminated screens and a swivel-chair before the door snaps shut.

Daz, the consummate receptionist, starts dialling immediately with only a slight bugging of his eyes at me.

Next out the door is the jockstrap guy I ran into on my second shoot. This time he's wearing nothing but a small white towel around his waist and chatting with the girl I'm assuming is Holly from Makeup, decked out in black from head to toe with an apron not-unlike the one I wear at Beau, except hers is full of tissues and brushes, and, I notice, a small pump bottle of Honey.

Behind them comes a massive guy with a head of thick, glossy, black hair, already phoning for a cab and shoving his deliciously-muscled arms into an apricot-colored shirt. He looks like he should be on one of the Miami based crime shows wearing a pair of aviators, the sort of guy you beg to suck the cock of.

"Hi," I find myself breathing in his direction, even though none of them have looked up and noticed me yet, too busy in their respective conversations. Daz snorts.

By way of acknowledgement Miami cocks his head in a 'Sure, guy' way and then disappears into Makeup, probably to hunt down his coat.

The girl looks up with a smile. "Hey there."

"Hey." I give a lame half-wave.

Blondie checks me out unabashedly. He's still got what I hope is a shit load of Honey up his tanned chest. The Makeup girl sees me looking and scrubs it off with a tissue from her apron, clucking.

"Hunter, you gotta clean off before you leave the set, it looks bad to the newbies."

"I'm sure he's seen worse," Blondie says with a playful lick of his lips that goes straight to my dick. "I saw your video, newbie. Hot."

It's not as embarrassing as it should be. I've already got this from Jake once the video went live. And Jake was a real peach and made sure it did the rounds amongst the kitchen boys, so now I can't walk in the door without being confronted by a pantomime of Paul-as-me rolling around on the tiles pretending to have an intense, howling orgasm while Chef and Antony snap their invisible cameras.

"Thanks, it was a lot of fun."

"Really? You looked so serious," he says slyly, chucking me under the chin with his smooth knuckles. I shiver. He sees it and his eyes glow. "Oh you are golden aren't you?"

"Leave him alone Hunter," Daz says in a dry voice, eyes not moving from his computer screen.

"Don't leave me alone," I say with a grin.

The girl -Holly- bursts out laughing. "You better watch your spot Hunter, he's a natural. Come on, let's get you cleaned up for the next shot, I think he got some in your hair."

"Don't even think about it," Daz says once they're gone.

"You don't know what I'm thinking," I say cheerfully. I'm already imagining taking a cute, oiled-up Hunter to my shitty apartment and breaking my shitty single bed.

"Well, bad idea." Daz's eyes flick away from his work. "Hunter's one of the nicer boys in the biz but he won't touch a co-star. That's what professionalism means in this industry."

I nod my head distractedly.

After a while Briar rocks up in sunnies, dressed like a slob with a huge fed-ex box under one arm and a suitcase in the other.

"New boom mic," he says, following my gaze. He seems to be in a much more cheerful mood than last time.

"Only the best for Robert," Daz says in a half-appreciative, half-weary voice.

"How is he?"

"Angry. Tanner's not looking good for it and Ryan's refusing to sign on until he sees a service tape."

Briar makes a hissing noise. "Can he do that?"

Daz shrugs. "If Robert wants him to be exclusive to Hard Pop then he'll pull out stops. You know how it goes."

Briar nods. "Man I hate the big shots."

I feel kind of left out. "What are we talking about?"

Daz sighs. "Only good news for you, sweets. Tanner, our number one, went and got himself quarantined." He shakes his head.

"Quarantined," Briar starts to explain, "is when you pop a positive on your monthly."

"He, uh, he has…?"

Daz looks sombre. "We don't know. He was making a movie -Wet Root Marathon- at Cream. One of the actresses involved popped a positive." Briars 'tsks' under his breath. "Anyway, Tanner and a bunch of the girls freaked out and got their tests done too early. They can't detect it that soon you know. So now they have to wait a 30 day cycle before they test again and prove clear. Until then Robert can't use him which means we don't have a 'star'."

"It's a fucking mess over at Cream," Briar adds, reaching over the counter to grab a stanley knife. "I heard they're so desperate for girls they're flying them in from the Valley. I even heard a rumour involving Lucy Cruz."

"That old witch will never come back to Manhattan," Daz says disinterestedly.

Briar shoots him a dirty look. "Say what you like, the day that star goes out I'm growing a grief beard. Best set of tits I've seen on a woman. Au nat-u-ral." He mimes a squeezing gesture at me like I would know.

Daz beckons me closer conspiratorially while Briar starts cutting up the box. "She was Briar's first shoot," he says in a mock-whisper, "back when he was a sad little operator's apprentice with a four-inch stiffy- Briar, can you not open that in here, you're getting cardboard on the floor, how do you think this makes us look!"

Briar vanishes through the Director's Door with his half-open package.

Daz and I strain to hear the curt, rapid tones filtering through the moment before the door shuts.

"Briar's straight?" I ask after a moment.

I get laughed at. "Carter, Robert is straight. They're in it for the money. And the creative freedom I guess. Gay pays more. Robert wants this to be the thinking fag's entertainment. It's about pushing boundaries without ever being, you know, S&M. And now he's in a grump because Tanner couldn't keep it out of the wrong pussy."

"Any pussy is the wrong pussy if you're going to work the gay circuit too," Hunter interrupts in a catty tone, stepping out of Makeup in blue-jeans and a tight white v-neck that looks like my fantasy. "I personally find it degrading to work in a studio where the number one is a dirty switcher."

"Tanner is bisexual?"

"Not even," Daz says with a look at Hunter that obviously says keep your voice down. "Tanner's full-fruit, he just likes working both scenes for the money. It's sort of an industry no-no. The girls don't like it either."

"So how come he's number one?"

Hunter starts to laugh. "Boy's got a cock like a rocket, comes on demand and can take a dicking for four hours straight and make it look like heaven."

I frown. "But he might be sick…?"

Hunter nods, looking a bit mollified.

A pimply-looking kid sticks his head out the door for Room Two. "Er, Hunter, we're going to start filming now."

Hunter claps a hand on my bicep, squeezing. "Good luck with the service."

Wait. What?

"Huh?"

"Yeah, that's what we called you in for today," Daz says as Hunter disappears for his shoot. "We got enough interest in your last solo to try for a 'service' reel. You know, show you off."

"So there'll be…another guy with me?"

"Don't worry, babe. He's a glorified fluffer, not a pretty-prick like Hunter. He'll make you feel comfortable before the camera starts rolling."

I nod, mouth suddenly dry. Just when I think I'm getting old-hat at this porn thing they throw me a curve ball.

Just in time, Robert pops out from his office looking a bit less dour. "Evening Carter."

"Hi! What, uh, what room do you want me in?"

"Go on through to Room One, Jules should be in there already. I'll be right in." He turns to discuss something grave-sounding with Daz.

Upon opening the door the first thing I notice is that someone's made the effort to put some colorful cushions on the sofa. The second thing I notice is the wiry middle-aged man sitting in the director's chair with his legs loosely crossed, reading a magazine. He looks up and then folds the magazine away when he sees me.

"Carter I take it. I'm Jules, I'll be servicing you today." It's very odd to hear that when shaking a man's hand.

Jules looks well on his way to becoming a wolf. He's kind of bony under his baggy gray shirt and his hair's more silver than black, but he's still an attractive guy and his handshake is firm.

"Hope you won't mind the stubble," he says with a laugh. "I used to shave it off for you boys but now my boyfriend won't let me."

I almost jerk my hand back in shock. "Your boyfriend knows you do this?"

He gives me a good-natured smile. "I think he figured it out on our second date. He was a bit touchy about it at first but now it turns him on to see me with the actors he likes."

"Sounds like a good deal," I say, taking a seat and trying not to edge away when he pulls up next to me.

"So, Carter, I'm thinking nothing too crazy."

I cough out a laugh. "Uh, yeah I don't like surprises."

"Yeah a lot don't. I think I surprised one guy into finding his prostate once."

"For real?"

He nods very seriously. "You'd be shocked at the amount of naive barely-legals who come through the business. It got to the point where I couldn't work with the ones who had no chest hair, you know?"

"Wow. Uh, I have chest hair," I say stupidly.

"Yeah, I saw," he says with a wolfish grin. "So let's say, I'll start with blowing you, and then if you're comfortable with it I'll play with your ass for the camera, and then I'll blow you some more and then you can come. Sound good?"

"Sounds mortifying."

He chuckles. "Hey you'll do fine. Twenty minutes tops, nothing drawn out. You can show off that thing in your lip if you like."

I rub my sweaty hands along the sofa cushion. "So I don't do anything for you?"

"Ha! That's the first time I've heard that. No, kid. Just lay back and enjoy yourself. They want to see a hot boy having a good time getting worshipped."

An Hispanic girl pokes her head around the door. "You guys cool?"

"Yeah, come in, Sophia. Sophia, Carter -Carter, our camera girl, Sophia. She's who you'll be working with on days when Robert's working a set."

We shake hands. The girl is tiny, I have no idea how she's going to work the massive tripod but she sets about it like it's made of spun-sugar, delicate hands flickering over the panels and levers until the bulk of camera is exactly the way she wants it.

"Alright boys, I've got a really, really gorgeous guy waiting at home for me tonight so let's make this snappy. Robert wants no toys, no fucking. Carter, just tap Jules if you think you're gonna pop early."

I let out a deep breath. C'mon Carter, it's no different from the first two times. Get naked.

I'm not sure whether it's some industry etiquette or whatever but both Sophia and Jules look away while I hop out of my jeans and yank my shirt off. Once I'm down to my underwear -purple boxer briefs- and seated in front of Jules on his knees, Sophia hits a switch.

The red light flicks on.

Jules' hands are warm and -comfortingly- lightly callused as they drag from my armpits, down my torso and hook under my underwear, pulling the fabric down so just a tease of the base of my cock is visible. Then he rubs his palms roughly up and down the outside of my thighs, tugging me forward so that my back settles into the sofa more and my hips are on the edge.

Then he goes to town, licking long, confident stripes from my navel to the line of my shorts, nipping the taut flesh and rolling it between his teeth with single-minded attention. The sensation is immediately arousing. I get hard so fast it would be embarrassing if Jules wasn't a very understanding, cock-sucking veteran and a professional. My hard-on is nudging up under his chin before he even gets to kissing the base of my cock, thumbs working in small, maddening circles down the sides of my shaft through the fabric.

By the time he pulls my underwear off, frogging my legs up beside his head and running his magical hands all over my chest -expert overstimulation- I'm already covered in a fine layer of sweat, my arms feeling tight and heavy, useless at my sides. I keep grabbing for sheets that aren't there.

I've never been particularly vocal during sex but I can't help a barked curse escaping my lips as Jules swallows me to the root, one long drawing suck and then nothing, meant to promise not to accelerate. He waits until I've stopped twitching to swallow me again, the back of his throat rubbing my cock-head unbearably. Each swallow and draw lasts a little longer until he's letting me thrust into his mouth, panting, trying to get my dick where it's tight and textured.

I can hear the whirr of the camera lens zooming in when he wrenches my legs up, knees either side of my chest and back bowed to show off the rest of my package. He's nibbling and stroking at the line of skin between my shaft and my balls, stubble driving me crazy where it tickles my ass cheeks. Once I remember where this is going I'm suddenly happy that that menacing Ukrainian girl got in there with her wax and spatula.

"Jesus fuck," I moan shakily when he starts chewing me, softly, just on the edge of my pucker, soothing away the feeling with rough strokes of his tongue. Being bent in half is making it hard to breathe and I can feel the heat radiating up off my sweaty chest and making my face feel flushed. I start groaning uncontrollably at about the time when he first starts frenching my ass, tongue working so hard and knowing that I don't know whether I'm squirming to get away or get more…

-:-:-:-

"Aaand that's a wrap, thanks boys."

Sophia's out the door so fast I almost get self-conscious about the smell of sex on me. My ass is still tingling. I try looking anywhere but at Jules' swollen mouth as I clean myself off with tissues from the Pink Box. Well we didn't need any Honey this time.

"That's some show you put on. No boyfriend?"

I shoot him a glare and he laughs, hands up in surrender.

"Ok, ok. I know how it is. You boys are all the same, so touchy about your lifestyle choices, like I'm here to judge."

"It's not that." I throw my shirt on. "I'm just looking for the right guy."

Jules makes a doubtful noise. "Right guy in the right wardrobe I'll bet." He sighs, hand paused on the door knob. "I'm not going to tell you to look past the tans and the hairstyles…I'm as shallow as the rest of you and I'm well past that game, but…you're a nice boy, not like those fucked up princesses next door." He cups my cheek, tender but not over-personal. "One day you're going to meet the one; and if he knows you're in porn -doesn't like it, does like it…whatever -you're going to wish you could get off without a camera in the room. Think about that."

I roll my eyes. "Thanks for the spiel, Yoda."

His grin is almost sad at the edges. But that might just be cum.

-:-:-:-

"So you'll give him my number then," Jake's saying over the low drone of off-peak customers' voices. I stand up, dusting my hands off after tweaking table thirty so that it no longer rocks. We spread out the dinner service tablecloth between us and I neaten it up so it falls right. Jake hates being on Saturday dinners so he never puts any effort into set-up, and I have to go behind, straightening the silverware and dusting off chairs. I used to wonder if Tony Sarenson would appreciate that on a resumé -'eye for detail'.

"Carter? You'll talk to Robert?"

I look up. "Yeah. But I can't promise they'll take you on, I think they're starting something big."

He nods. His hair's getting too long again and he's lost more weight. The old DKNY doesn't sit so nicely across his shoulders. "That'll be The Wildest Night," he says sagely, following me over to the next table.

"How the hell do you know?"

"It's all they were talking about last I was there. It's going to be the flagship for the studio. But I don't know what they're going to do now that Tanner Reid's been dropped."

"You ever met him? What's he like?"

Jake's face takes on a dreamy look. "He looks like Leonardo Dicaprio's twink cousin. He's insta-wood. Ass like two scoops of vanilla ice cream. Do you seriously not watch the videos on the site?"

"No," I say with a smile, "I'm too scared of running into one of you." I poke my tongue out…then suck it back in when I realise Jenna's storming over from the direction of Ziggy's bar, chic black dress so tight she looks like she's got no tits.

"Hi boys, can I get you to do your work please," she says sweetly, clawed hand resting in the crook of Jake's elbow.

I smile back just as sweetly. "Have you put on weight Jenna?"

"Carter, clean the cake fridge once you're done."

I bite my tongue. I just cleaned it yesterday and she knows it.

I bow my head over my tray of napkin crowns and tea-lights and wait until I here the clack-clack of her heels disappearing before I look up.

"Gee thanks, way to stick up for me, Robin," I hiss, snatching a grubby spoon out of his hand before he can dump it on the table, and giving it a good polish.

"Hey we don't all have an affluent side-job, Batman," Jake says with just a hint of bitterness.

We continue working in silence for a few minutes just while Jenna's stalking around the floor being the world's falsest hostess.

"So how much did they give you for the service?"

I shrug. "'Bout six." Six hundred and fifty USD actually.

I hear Jake pause. "Do you think when you talk to Robert you could ask him about…me… maybe doing a service or something?"

"Sure! Then maybe it'll be you they're taking off in the kitchen next time." I use a a fork to point in the direction of the kitchen flaps where just the top of Antony's head is visible, bent over his prep no doubt. "So tell me about this 'flagship'."

"The Wildest Night?" he asks, shrugging and licking the back of a spoon before setting it down. I dart a look at Jenna's back before grabbing it off the napkin. "I'm not too sure. Like I said, there was a lot of talk but I'm not really in with the actors."

"Oh for- I'm not in."

"You have witty repartee with Hunter Stone. You're in," he says with an indecipherable look.

"Whatever, what's the plot going to be about?" I ask, "Daz was telling me yesterday that they're making a movie next door at Cream called Girl Bomb. The girls have sex with a bunch of guys but they're really lesbians so they blow up into pussy juice and the guys melt."

"Wow…" Jake says looking genuinely boggled. "Guess not everyone can afford Scorsese to direct their porn."

"From the way Briar and Daz talk about Robert you'd think he was Scorsese."

Jake nods. "Well he is isn't he."

"Jake," Jenna sing songs, "Carter. I can hear you talking."

"Fuck off Jenna," Jake sing songs back making the guy next to us snicker into his tea, "We're talking about po-orn."

Jenna's eyes narrow. It's like I have telescope vision. I can see her powdery little face scrunching up with annoyance. Jake continues, uncaring, "Way I heard it Robert got his experience in the Valley with one of the bigger studios." I remember the way Robert had said a popular studio name like it was slime. "He ended up moving here to do his own thing but he took a whole lot of contacts with him -big contacts. And the guy's married into this rich old family so he can afford to do just about anything he wants, and he wants to make a movie that'll put Pop at the top of boutique porn."

"But it's falling to pieces, right?"

I heft the glass door to the cake fridge open and Jake passes me some scrunched up newspaper and cleaner.

"Well yeah. He just bought into a 5 year exclusive with Ryan Wilde."

"Awesome."

"Oh Carter. You are such a gay fail it's not even cute. Ryan Wilde? The man's sex on legs. He used to do the hetero stuff, and you know, it's not my dish but I guess the boy did it well because there was some fuss about him going into Hollywood." I can tell by the excitement in Jake's voice that he's in love with the guy. "But then last year, there was this big stir up between him and a female co-star -publicity stunt for sure- and he started appearing in some gay stuff, just cameos you know -Bare Bronco, Inside Taylor Bull. But he's got really popular off it. He even got a spread in GQ. They're saying he's going to be bigger than Patrick Bone if he ever starts making proper movies."

"And Robert bought him?" I ask, astounded.

"Yep. I think the plan is to get Wilde to play Romeo to Tanner's Juliet. You know, a sort of set piece for the studio. And in return Ryan gets his debut with the most exclusive new studio in Manhattan."

"But Tanner's not doing The Wildest Night," I say, scrubbing at a stubborn bit of ice I must have missed.

"Well I guess they're looking for a replacement then," Jake says, taking a bite of caramel eclaire before sliding it back into the fridge.

 


	4. Stringer

I find I'm dancing as I move around my tiny kitchen, headphones in and blasting unrepentantly crap pop music. Ham's got his head buried in a packet of marshmallows.

I can still see Milo's shocked face as I pinned the check from the second solo to his chest with a finger, along with a roll of cash tips and a packet of gum for his chronic halitosis. I mean, I'm diagnosing that myself but Mrs Milo must make a mean Tzatziki. So long nice Kurdish family, not while I'm alive. The $650 from 'Carter Gets Serviced' is on the fridge. The $200 bonus from warranting a profile and garnering 12 new memberships went into the fund for a new quilt to go with the new bed my friend Jess is sitting on, laptop open.

Her face is remarkably controlled for someone who's watching a co-worker get rimmed.

"Ham, piss off." I grab the candy away from him and he shakes his head, bristling with annoyance. "No don't look at me like that, you're going on a fucking diet," I say, hiding the packet where he can't reach. Old Mother Hubbard's cupboards are no longer bare. Big, aggressively colorful canisters of protein-mix line my shelves and the fridge is packed with greens. No asparagus.

Ham's not the only one starting a new regime.

The problem with a lack of sensitive female influence in the studio is that there's no buffer between what your director wants and what you look like. Apparently when I'm being compacted into a sweaty little ball my stomach doesn't look as firm as it should. Which I'm starting to resent Antony for -fucker won't stop plying me with osso bucco and key lime pie on break. Delicious delicious sabotage. Hunter put me onto a series of shakes and pills meant to lean me up but I'm still having trouble swallowing the gunk which is odd since I've swallowed worse and liked it.

I shoot a wary glance over at Jess. She's closed the laptop and is staring out the window, which I know for a fact means she's troubled because my view consists of a brick wall and drain. I yank my earphones out.

"So, what do you think?"

"The guy in it is old," is all she says, gaze fixed on the murky stain spreading from my neighbor's drain. She's pissed, but I knew she'd be pissed. The train ride back from work was the awkwardest in my life. The mood was so frosty I ended up walking from the subway to my building four steps behind her with my MP3 on.

She found out from a delighted Jenna who worked it out of Paul finally. I knew the second I saw her pinched face that our friendship was about to walk a shaky bridge.

I collapse onto the bed next to her. We're both in our greasy uniforms so I'll have to do a load of laundry before bed. I can't stand sleeping in that smell. "He's not that old. It's a gay thing, you wouldn't get it."

"Yeah. Maybe I don't."

I let out an annoyed breath. "Maybe you shouldn't be obsessed with gay men then."

"That's not fair," she says in a small voice.

"Yeah it isn't," I admit. "But seriously, Jess, this is just where life is taking me right now. It's not meant to be, you know, seedy."

"But it  _is_  seedy, Carter," she says angrily, her eyes watering. Fuck. Jess always tears up when she gets angry, it really neuters my desire to take her down. "You think I don't want things too? I'm the same as the rest of you. I want to make it. I want my fucking records to sell and meet Lady Gaga…and look good and- and get laid. I'm the same."

"Uh, you're a girl," I say snidely.  _And I don't want to meet Lady Gaga_ , I think.

"Thanks Carter yes, I do have a Big Scary Vagina (I cringe) and it gets me laid just fine so don't go thinking I want to  _be_  you. God, you're all so- so  _fucked_  up underneath aren't you. I thought you were different." She's rummaging through her purse angrily, looking for tissues. I have some in my nightstand but she's not going in there. I offer her an old shirt tucked down the side of the bed and she takes it, snuffling a laugh.

"I'm just doing it until I'm squared up with my rent," I say to placate her. It's true. Sort of. Square up the rent for the big-ass apartment I'm going to buy the second I have the funds.

"Fine. It's fine," she says with a determined sniff. "I overreacted I'm sorry. I was just upset because I saw your penis."

The bed shakes with my amused laughter. "I could show you it now?"

"God not you too. I've already seen Ziggy's more times than I can count." Her smile is shaky. "Don't do anything dangerous, please, Carter. Please?"

"How can I say no to that hideously blotchy face."

She slaps my stomach so hard I yelp. "I mean it. I don't want to have to identify you out of the Hudson because your parents don't give enough of a shit to come down."

"Hey, my mom would come," I say. "She'd never let her only son be buried with a piercing, it would be a disgrace."

**-:-:-:-**

Mia is painting Kitty's toes butter-yellow as I walk past.

"Hey girls."

Kitty says a perfunctory hello, eyes still glued to the newspaper she's reading, but Mia jumps up to hug me, yanking the pink pastry box out of my hands before returning to her spot on the love-seat, crouched between Kitty's dainty feet.

Kitty finally takes an interest, lowering her paper for a moment to peruse the selection of slightly wonky custard tarts. There was a little peanut-butter truffle in there too, but I got weak on the subway.

"Stay out here and eat them with us. It's madness in there anyway," Mia says with a coquettish bite of her tart. "I'll let you see my kitty-cat." Her hand goes sliding up Kitty's thigh, disappearing under her checkered school skirt and stroking for just a beat too long so that I flush uncomfortably.

"See," I say, gesturing at their school uniforms, "this is why you're always in detention."

"Naw, I'm a good girl," Mia says playfully, going back to eating her tart with unladylike gusto.

"What are you in for, kid?" Kitty asks, eyes flicking above her paper. "I didn't know gay hipster was in such high demand."

I flip her the bird but I've already lost her attention to the stocks section. "Robert called me in to do another solo I think."

Before Kitty can respond, Angelica -Cream's receptionist- pokes her head around the corner. She looks flustered. "Alright girls. We need you on set. Mia don't try and eat Chen out, she's on her period. We got a sponge up there but it could geyser at any time."

Mia nods sulkily. I don't know how straights immerse themselves in the fantasy. Neither Mia nor Kitty pass as school girls. Mia's got a mass of black and pink extensions that just about outweigh her and a set of false eyelashes to match, and Kitty's got the full body of a 35 year old woman, her blouse straining at the buttons around her stomach and chest.

I've half a mind to follow them in. I've been offered before. Cream and Pop have a relaxed walk-in policy so long as you keep quiet and stay out of everyone's way.

I shrug the notion off. I'd hate to go through the trauma and confusion of realizing I was straight all of a sudden.

There's no one manning the desk when I head on through to Hard Pop's offices, though Daz's Starbucks is on the counter, still in its cardboard carrier, and a small vacuum has been hastily pushed to a corner of the room. Underneath the softly throbbing music of the montage screen I can hear the mumble of several male baritones and one higher pitched voice coming from Room Two.

I grew up in a fighting household. My hand's on the door ready to crack a peek before I even realize I've done it.

I almost get sucked into the room when the door comes swinging open with violent force. Hunter rears back, pink face perfectly slack with shock before it crumples into a scowl. His shoulder collides with mine as he passes, locking in place under my collarbone for just a moment too long to be accidental, so that I hunch around the sudden impact and he uses his lesser height to just about pivot me around, staring after his retreating form as he stomps out.

What the fuck just happened? I check to make sure he hasn't gotten anything on my new jacket. I'm not that much of a slob, just that it's brand spanking, and because, from experience, Hunter is usually covered in an assortment of fluids when he walks out of Room Two.

"Good timing," a bubbly voice says from behind me.

I've interrupted a meeting, that much is clear as I swivel around. The furniture for Set 1 has been crushed up along one partition to make room for a loose circle of chairs. My eyes pick out Sophia, Briar and his assistant crouched over a laptop in one corner, the pimply guy who I think is in lighting, Daz, Robert, and Holly from makeup.

And standing right in front of me is a short kid with his hair rolled over to one side at the front in an adorable retro way, eyelashes like you'd get on a horse, and the biggest set of come fuck me lips I've ever seen. I know instantly that this must be Tanner Reid.

He lifts one well-groomed eyebrow at my slack mouth. "You here for an appointment or just to stare at me?"

"God I'm hoping both."

He laughs breathily.

I hold my hand out. "You're Tanner right? Carter."

He shakes it, looking confused. "You're…large?" He darts a look over his shoulder at the circle of chairs.

"That will do for today, thank you Tanner." Robert's dry voice comes from the circle of chairs, one of which he toes out with a squeak. "Carter, since you're here."

I take the invitation at a quick, awkward stumble before I'm able to embarrass myself anymore. Briar finally looks up from where he's explaining something to his apprentice to give me an inexplicable thumbs up. I return the gesture.

"Uh so, what's going on with Hunter?" I direct my question at Holly since she's the only one who doesn't look frustrated or busy.

She just shakes her head in a frustrated, 'don't ask me' way, makeup brush tapping furiously against one knee.

"He got cut from the project," Sophia says, pausing to take a sip of coffee from a styrofoam cup. "Well, no. He'd have to have been in it to get cut. Failed audition."

I look at the spread of paper and manilla folders on the floor in the centre. Most of them appear to be copies of a manuscript, confirmed when I lean over one close by - 'Scene 1'. I feel a wash of excitement flow down the back of my spine and fan out to my fingers.

"Is this for The Wildest Night?"

All the clicking and shuffling comes to a halt as seven heads jerk up to stare at me. Briar clears his throat.

"Robert?"

"Yes, yes," Robert says with a slightly chastised expression, "I'll tell him in a moment. Everyone else get back to the wardrobe situation, Carter follow me." He dumps his netbook on a chair and I follow him a little way away from the conference, just behind a partition where a food trestle has been set up.

The spread's got Daz written all over it. Blood red apples, polished and stacked alongside a bowl of grapes, chocolate covered pineapple lumps, cinnamon scrolls and glossy-looking apricot danishes. At one end is a pot of coffee next to a tea service that would make Jenna froth. I peel my eyes away from it with conscious effort.

"Ok so…what's happening? Am I in the movie?"

He nods.

I'm too happy to faint.

"Yes! Thank you! Thank you, Robert, you won't regret this!"

"Oh I will, but that's not your fault," he says, pinching the area of skin between his brows. "Ryan Wilde's agreed to have you on as his co-star. It's unprecedented but there you are."

I feel the floor underneath me tremble. "What…?  _How_? Hunter-"

"-Was never going to be a part of The Wildest Night. He's not what I imagined in the role."

"And he -Ryan Wilde- he  _chose_  me?"

"You might say that." Robert's mouth quirks into a grimace. "I don't need to remind you, I expect your utmost professionalism on set. The crew all understand that they'll be working with an amateur but…"

"I get it."

"Right, well, I'll go tell Holly you're on board so she can figure out some wardrobe for you. We'll be doing your model shots first and then if that works out we'll run over the script with you."

"Today?"

Robert nods. "We're on a tight schedule because of some…casting difficulties. We hope to have the whole thing wrapped by Friday."

I stand in shocked delight as he walks away. Me. I'm going to be in a porno. I'm going to be famous.

Fuck famous, I'm going to be  _rich_.

The moment Robert disappears behind the partition I start stuffing my pockets full of pastries for Ham.

"You know that the craft service is for actors and crew only right?" a snide voice interrupts.

"Do  _you_  know that I'm totally about to blow my load all over Ryan Wilde's face and therefore  _am_  an actor?" I say, just as cattily, turning around to face the intruder.

Holy shit. Holy  _shit_! My breath hitches. The guy's a model. No, a god. He's my height, which is tall, but he wears it better; long legs, shoulders broad and sharp under dark-gray Hugo Boss. His wide mouth is slightly open with surprise under a fine, straight nose and the meanest set of ice-blues you've ever seen.

"You know I'm Ryan Wilde right-"

"-Figured it out just now," I say after a gulp, my heart sinking.

His expression is unimpressed.

"I am so, so sorry man. I'm Carter." I hold my hand out and am not surprised when he doesn't take it, frosty eyes still fixed on my face, bored. I'm not going to be able to hold this shit-eating grin much longer.

"I know who you are," he says flatly. His voice is slightly husky.

"Right, of course. You saw the service, right? Do you…are you hungry?"

His eyebrows -a shade darker than his wavy, almost-blond hair- pull down into a scowl. "What?"

"Uh, if you're hungry I can put some stuff…" I put a squashed-looking profiterole back on its tray, "…back." Please let this not really be happening to me.

His full, plush mouth twitches up into what might be considered a smile. "No thank you."

"Ok, that's cool."

"What is?"

"Huh?"

"What's cool?"

"Oh," I run a hand through my hair nervously. Can the guy make this any awkwarder? "You…not being hungry I guess."

He gives me an odd look before stepping forward and pouring himself a cup of coffee. The suit pulls in all the right places, and, I notice, he's wearing an enormous Tag Heuer, silver plates gleaming against his tan skin. It's a little incongruous against such a subdued suit, like a Bentley with fluffy dice. He sees me looking and stands up straight, shrugging his cuff back down to cover it.

"So," I say, just for something to say, "why did you pick me?"

"Pick you?"

"Yeah. Robert said you chose me for the role…?"

He shakes his head. "Robert chose you. I just said yes."

I'll take that.

"Oh good, you've met." It's Daz. He eyes the awkward space between us before shooting me a sympathetic smile. "Ryan, Robert wants to take your model shots now if you wouldn't mind. Carter, you can head on through to Set 3 too."

"Hold up," Holly says, appearing from around the partition. "Carter you're with me. We've got a bit of work to do."

I follow Holly out the door that leads straight to Makeup, stumbling backwards partway so that I can catch a glimpse of Ryan Wilde's ass headed for Set 3 with Daz trotting alongside him to keep up.

"Door, Carter," Holly says bluntly as I almost run into it.

"Fuck," I bellow once the door shuts behind us. Miami's sitting in front of one of the many light-framed mirrors, busy with his phone. He gives us a dirty look.

"I know," Holly sighs. "Let's get you trimmed."

I sink into one of the red-leather chairs and cock my head up to present my jaw.

"Cute. Pants off."

"Nu uh, I don't manscape."

"That's very rugged of you. Pants off."

"Aw c'mon. It's neat down there, I promise."

"Carter, don't be a little queen about it," she says, whipping a disposable razor and scissors out of her apron. "This is my job. Normally I'd let you do it yourself but we're a bit pressed for time and you're unlicensed."

"You have to have a license?"

Miami snorts, intent on his texting.

"Carter, it's standard procedure. The director wants you shaved."

"I beg to differ," Miami drawls from his chair. He fixes me with a condescending look. "Only time you need to shave is when your co-star demands it."

Holly shoots him a look. "David, can it."

I frown at my reflection in the mirror. The harsh lighting makes me look a bit pale and my eyebrows too starkly black. I push at my lip ring with my tongue. The guy in the mirror doesn't look half as uneasy as I feel.

"Fine," I say, getting to my feet and unbuckling with a gusty sigh. My belt makes a metallic noise as it uncoils on the tiles. Holly's eyes bulge.

"…Wow."

"Yeah. Welcome to the jungle, bitch."

**-:-:-:-**

"Carter, hurry up," I hear Robert say as I'm trying to sneak on set without anyone noticing.

Ryan is sitting on the edge of the bed -plush, golden quilt with a black headboard- getting something on his face touched up by a lighting guy, but his arctic eyes track me neutrally as I stumble onto the set with him. The Hugo Boss must be part of his costume because the only change is that they've tugged open the black shirt underneath to reveal a handspan of beautifully smooth flesh with just a suggestion of shadow between his pecs. Under the unforgiving set lights I can see that he actually has fine, blond stubble across his lip and on the sides of his jaw.

My own hands swipe nervously over the jeans and khaki-jacket I've been given. Nothing too different from what I'd normally wear but not a cut I'd pick for myself either. Everything's sort of tight. And I have no shirt.

"Alright let's take some shots. Get close."

I feel a tug on the jacket and trip sideways.

"Watch it."

"Sorry!"

One of the cameras flashes.

"Hey!"

"Ok, guys," Robert says from behind a gigantic Nikon. Sophia is moving around nearby, finger poised over shutter. "Chest to chest, Ryan, if you could, hand under Carter's chin, other hand- yes, yes like that."

I try not to flinch as Ryan's smooth fingers slide along my jaw, his thumb an almost non-pressure under my cheek. His other arms slides along my lower back, tugging me against him. I start begging my dick to behave -Holly with a razor, Holly with a razor.  _Jenna_  with a razor.

We look at each other. His eyes are narrowed, uninterested. It's hard to look like I'm swooning despite the hard line of warmth all down my front. The supple leather interiors of our shoes are fitted together like jigsaw puzzle pieces. But still, those eyes are blank, like he's not even really there with me.

"Carter, try something else with the face."

I smile. "No." Pout. "No." Puppy-eyes?

"Just try looking like you're in love with me," Ryan says. Close up the husky tones roll over my lips. Spearmint gum, I think. He almost sounds amused.

I try a few more faces: staring into his eyes, at his mouth, at his collarbone, resting my head under his neck -which is awkward because I'm not quite short enough for it- smiling at the camera, looking down. Ryan doesn't move, his hand a hot brand against my back, his knees just brushing mine.

"That'll do guys," Robert says, in his own modest way that means he's satisfied. "Now if we could get some nudes."

I nod, reaching out a trembling hand for Ryan's belt.

"What are you doing?" he snaps, knuckles rapping mine. He starts to unbutton his own suit. Oh.  _Oh_.

Shaky with embarrassment, it takes a while to get my jeans down and my wrist gets stuck in the cuff of my jacket. By the time I'm finished the crew are all standing around, patiently waiting. I try not to look at the very naked Ryan Wilde next to me and instead focus on the sad stubble of bush left at my crotch. Somehow it looks denser trimmed. My dick's propped awkwardly, not hard but definitely interested in getting there.

They end up taking several photos of us in exactly the same positions as before, but this time I'm hyperaware of the lightly haired thigh pressing against mine, the press of his cock just under my hip. He's not hard.

"Ok boys. Now some for the harder edit. Either of you need a hand? Lube?"

Someone laughs. I shake my head but Ryan says something to Sophia -which seems odd since she's very obviously busy with her camera- who grabs him a small bottle of lubricant out of the Pink Box. I swallow.

It takes a while to get hard, that is, before I hear the rhythmic slapping noises Ryan's making next to me. He's felt comfortable enough to sit on the edge of the bed and I can hear the soft noises of the mattress creaking as well. It's all very chain reaction after that -southward rush of blood, pleasure-shocks up the backs of my legs. No one looks very interested in me jacking my wood which is a relief, but the effect of the lascivious, wet noises coming from behind me might soon develop into a very different sort of problem.

"Ready?" Robert asks without looking at me. Sophia is showing him something on her screen that might be responsible for his pleased grin.

"Yes," I hear Ryan say, so I nod.

"Ok. Ryan, if you could stand up and put your hands on your hips- yes, like that. And Carter…just kneel in front of him for now and look back at the camera. No this way."

I pause with my mouth in front of Ryan's junk, swallowing reflexively. He's got plenty of nest, I notice with an internal snarl, and a small, dark mole to one side, identical with the one under his left eye. He's barely hard and the unpleasant, clinical smell of the residual lubricant is making my mouth water and my stomach flip like a really twisted Pavlov's Dog.

I look up but Ryan's eyes are bored, fixed on some detail in the set partition that I can't see.

"Good, now look at the camera."

I obey. I can't see much beyond the sting of lights and the flashing cameras. Robert is just a dark shape, ducking out, adjusting. One of the dark blurs is Sophia.

"Ryan. You might want to try to stay interested."

Ryan mumbles something which might be, "Nothing here to interest me" -which makes my skin crawl and my face go red.

"Carter. If we could get a shot of you with your tongue on his penis."

I reach up to grab his shaft automatically, tonguing just underneath the crown to the snap-flash of cameras. He tastes…wrong. Underneath the lube there's something else. Something that overwhelms the natural musky tang that normally turns me on.

I want him to put his hand on my head, anything to show that he's with me in this, but he just continues to stand still as a statue, only the reluctant, slow hardening against my tongue proof that he's human.

Robert has me suck his cock for show. It's odd, trying not to use my tongue anymore than necessary, twisting my neck so that Sophia can get in there for close-ups. Ryan's cock twitches in my mouth but he's one step away from flaccid. It's uncomfortable and Holly darts in every now and then to dab at the saliva drooling out of one corner of my mouth while Robert has Ryan complete an elaborate set of poses -hands on his hips, hands above his head, showing off his arms, pinching one dusky-colored nipple. I think this might be the closest I've ever got to crying.

"Nearly done boys. Carter, if you could give the camera a stringer."

Ryan's dick slips out from between my lips with a wet noise. My tongue feels numb and heavy as I try to shape a question. "What?"

Hands under my jaw surprise me into looking up. It's the first time since the beginning of the shoot that he's even really looking at me. Making sure that he has my attention, he slides two pinched fingers down the length of his shaft, drawing up the residue of my saliva. Carefully, he parts the fingers in front of my face so that a thin, gossamer thread of spit slides out between them.

"From your mouth to my dick," he says softly. "A 'stringer'."

I look at his dick, kiss the head and feel him shift his weight -a reaction. It's small but it means something. Slowly I draw back, trying not to go cross eyed at the shiny rope of saliva attached at his flushed cock-head. The cameras flash and I watch it bead and snap.

 


	5. Into the Wilde

"Why don't you come on in, I'm getting lonely," I say, turning around and treading water.

"Aren't you cold?"

"Baby, it's warm in here."

Ryan shrugs out of his suit jacket. "Let's see if I can't warm you up some more."

I duck my mouth under the surface and blow a stream of bubbles so that I don't laugh out loud.

"Carter, we can see that, stop doing it," Robert says bluntly, crouched behind a tripod with Sophia and his assistant.

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, be better."

Ryan hasn't broken character and is still slowly stripping off the Brioni tux Robert's probably sold his soul -or somebody else's- to rent for the week. I cringe as the beautiful fabric puddles around his feet on the grass, hoping someone keen is going to swoop in and pick it up before it gets damp.

I blow one last bubble before standing up, slicking my hair back with two palms of water.

"Get in here then, make me hot." It comes out kind of sexy even if the delivery is a little bit flat. Ryan gives me a smouldering look as he winches off his tie, winding it slowly around one fist and then letting it drop, curling, to the ground.

He's wearing a black speedo, stretched nearly transparent over his bulge. I think he's been fluffed while I was in wardrobe. I try to look around at the crew without splashing too much. Did one of them suck him off? I try to find Sophia in my peripheral. The pool area is crowded with people, all rugged up against the brisk air in coats and scarves. The pool itself is heated which is why I'm reluctant to follow direction and actually stand up with the waterline under my ribs. The steam's also creating a few problems for the camera guys.

"Carter. We're rolling," Robert says in a tired voice.

I stand up slowly, trying not to feel the way the tepid water beads turn icy as they roll over my chest.

"Shy?"

"No," Ryan says, slipping into the pool as graceful as a cat. We took five reels of me getting in and out 'with poise' until Robert made the executive decision to have my just go splashing in. It sort of works better with my character anyway. I'm playing a punk, an escort invited up to some millionaire's penthouse and taking advantage of the rooftop pool, and my client's stoic reluctance to play. It's at once terrifically exciting and not as cool as I imagined, since my co-star is a real-life stiff.

Ripples slap up against my chest as he wades closer, the pool light and steam playing off all that tanned flesh, drawing erratic, cracked lines of luminescence over his neck and abs, blue light reflected in his eyes. This might be a dream if Briar wasn't hanging his fishing-pole mic directly over our heads.

If he's cold he doesn't show it, hands sliding up over my goose-pimpled arms just as a frigid stream of water drools out of the cowlick at the back of my neck and makes me shiver so violently it probably looks like full-blown lust. He quirks an eyebrow.

"Shy?"

"Of a good boy like you?"

He lets me walk him backwards through the water, our feet brushing each other out of the camera's sight, arms locked and slippery. With a murmured word from Robert, Ryan twists us around, pressing my back against the pool wall, the edge jarring between two vertebrae but I don't really give a fuck. His hands are moving up over my shoulders and into my hair.

"Oh yeah," I breathe, "Pull it hard."

Oh fuck. Not in the script.

Ryan's eyes narrow, flick up to Robert, back to me. His hands ball against my scalp, tightening to the point of pain before abruptly letting go. Almost tenderly he presses his lips to the corner of my mouth and I feel my eyes sink shut against the feeling. Then his thumbs are pressing, hard, either side of my voice box -his hands are shaking, I realize, cold?- and my mouth is dropping open, his tongue thrusting in, hot and cold at once, pushing against mine so inconsiderately I find myself groaning around it.

We make out for so long my lips start to pulse, and the friction of our stubble rubbing is becoming unbearably sore, a sort of overstimulation in itself. The water on our chests has evaporated and the bump of his nipples against mine is way too much. My dick feels so hot it's numb in my shorts. Slowly I start to slide my hands down his back, over the fine muscles either side of his spine and down around at his waist, palm seeking for his dick. I just know I'm going to shoot if I get to touch it.

Suddenly there're fingers clamped down hard around my wrist, squeezing. Ryan pulls his mouth from mine and I kill the whimper that tries to spill out after it.

"You don't need to do that," he murmurs in my ear, "The camera can't see." I swallow, barely grasping the meaning behind his words. He pointedly interlocks his fingers with mine, shoving my hand up against pool edge so that I can feel the coarse stone tile abrading the back of my hand. It doesn't matter because he's kissing a line down the cord of my neck, sinking his teeth into the erogenous flesh of my suprasternal notch.

Jenna with a razor, Jenna with a razor, I think, gritting my teeth against the slow wave of pleasure sinking through my lower stomach and settling in my balls. The muscle from navel to the base of my shaft feels tense and if he accidentally brushes it with his hip one more time I swear I'm going to shove his head under the water and make him finish me.

"Alright," Robert says, reminding us that he's still there, camera hovering, "Now Ryan, you lift Carter up on the rim and give him some head."

I nod, already crooking my elbows to help him hoist me out of the water. The assist never comes.

"Wouldn't it make sense for him to blow me?" Ryan says. The question's directed at Robert but his eyes are fixed on my mouth.

"Wait, that's not in the script-" I start.

"Only if you insist, Ryan," Robert says with a hard look. Ryan doesn't even acknowledge him, just levers himself, dripping, out of the water. I slide into place between his legs with a questioning glance at the director. Robert merely nods exasperatedly before disappearing behind the tripod.

"This is what I've really wanted all night," I improvise, rubbing my cheek along his thigh, ignoring the chill, my fingers seeking under the band of his speedo and rolling it down over his hips just enough to pull his cock out. He hisses as I draw him out with my cold fingers.

I end up with my elbows resting either side of his thighs, hunched over his dick and breathing steamy air onto the head. That makes him shiver, or at least the out-of-pool temperature does. For me, it's an awkward angle, and the sopping, cold fabric exposed to the chill air is distracting. It's like having someone pour ice water down your crack.

"Do it. Suck on that meat," Ryan says in a low voice. It takes every ounce of impulse control not to roll my eyes.

I don't honestly know how a boy hooker would go about sucking cock but I've never had any problem diving on in there so I trust my natural technique and start with my mouth around the base, trying to keep in mind that I won't be able to use my hand. To get enough leverage I sort of have to balance myself on my forearms, knees grazing against the pool wall and feet treading water. I keep my tongue wrapped firmly under his shaft lest his unappreciative cock flop sideways and force me to reposition to grab it.

He starts to get hot when I'm laving on his vein, making sure to rub the flat of my tongue in hard, rocking motions under the glans on upward strokes and sucking on the head. I feel him become aroused; the tell-tale push of his legs against my arms, his dick expanding in my mouth, making me sigh with pleasure. He tastes like chlorine, and kind of salty and the water's made the head almost rubbery against the back of my throat.

I can't properly go down on him at this angle but nobody stops me trying, straining up on my elbows and trying to suck more of him into my mouth, feeling him flinch as his dick knocks against my molars. My left hand is curling reflexively against the stone, missing the action. Damn it. I'm good at this, he could be coming right now.

"Ah ahh f-," he moans shakily after a while of me lightly flicking my tongue under the head. I feel the faint pressure of his fingers on my hair and try not to grin. I keep going. Repetition is, after all, the key to a man's heart. Only a minute later and his chest is heaving, the speedo fabric bunching under his ass as he squirms, trying to get away from the pleasure-pain of my tongue tip under his ridge.

"Ahh, fuckshit, I'm gonna-" he hisses as I ply a wet kiss on top of my ministrations.

I pull back- as per script- so that he can jack himself frenziedly against my lips. He pauses, jacks again just a little slower and I stick my tongue out to catch some of the shot as he tips his head back and groans.

-:-:-:-

"I think he's angry at me," I say to Holly as she towels me down in the suite's bathroom. I'm cold through to my bones and I'm just about willing to ask Robert to take a hundred bucks off my check if he'll let me chill in the spa-bath for a while, maybe order homestyle chicken pie off the room service menu.

"No shit Sherlock. That was supposed to last 20 minutes not ten." She heaves a sigh, attacking my hair with a comb and frowning when it gets stuck. "Robert seemed happy enough with what they got I guess. Just stick to the script next time, ok?"

"Tell that to Dynamite out there," I grumble.

She sniggers. "Some guys are useless unless they get to butter up. Guess he couldn't what with the pool and all. Close you eyes," she warns a second after spritzing something at my fringe and directly into my eyes.

"Yargh! What is that? Mace? What do you mean, 'butter up'?" I manage between coughs.

"You know, butter, desensitizing creams. You guys use it to…'stay?'"

"Oh. Nope. Never used it."

But I've tasted it, I realize, reflecting on yesterday's model shots.

She shrugs, fluffing up the hair at the back of my neck with a disapproving look and searching for her scissors. "Does this never sit flat? I'll tell you one thing -at least his hair is easier to work with than yours."

"Oh so it's not just me he's an asshole to?"

"Ssh keep your voice down," she says mildly. "Anyway, they're all like that, aren't they? He's just throwing his weight around, testing how much Robert will give."

"What about me? Does anyone care about me?" I turn my head to pout at her and she locks her fingers over my skull, keeping me in place while she trims.

"Buck up. Your star will get a chance to shine. Then maybe you'll be the diva. Demanding your co-stars all get shaved…refusing to go down on anyone…"

"I'd never refuse to go down on anyone," I say bluntly. "It would be in my contract that they have to let me go down on them at least once."

"Hussy."

"Did you see the suit?" I say, changing the topic. "It's a fucking Brioni. Bespoke."

"And you bet Robert knows it. Daz said he was considering hiring security on just for the suit, but with the money that's going into production and marketing…the cost of using the hotel's penthouse…"

"Oh yeah, how do I get back to the Heights from here?"

She snorts. "Just look out the window. You can see half the city from up here. Briar won't go near it you realize -the window. He's afraid of heights. We had to pull the curtains while he was setting up sound in the master suite for scene one."

I pluck at the khaki jacket. "Enter the classy street punk."

"Yeah, there's an original plot line. At least you don't have to explode. Listen, I've got to go touch up your 'concierge' for his solo scene -guy actually needs makeup, pimple on his ass the size of Texas but that's what you boys get for DIY waxing." I make a pained face. That's where they come from? "Would you do me a favor and go get Ryan from next door, you guys start shooting in ten."

I nod reluctantly as she deposits a key card in my hands -still pruny from the chlorine.

"And don't even think of stealing the shampoo."

-:-:-:-

I run into Jake of all people on the floor beneath the penthouse which is where the editors are working, and also where Ryan is supposed to be getting washed and tux'd up. It shouldn't be such a surprise since Daz told me earlier, before we left HQ, that Hard Pop would be filming more standard productions, splitting the cost of having to hire the entire floor beneath the penthouse with some of the other smaller porn studios -an industry standard, according to Daz. The hotels accept their rooms are going to be used to make adult films so they corner the studios into a buying up a whole block of rooms as a 'buffer' and to absorb some of the cost the studio then loans out the rooms to other studios to make their videos. A sort of win-win for everyone involved. Except it meant the entire 50thth floor was teaming with half-naked actors, used towels and camera equipment.

Jake almost crashes into me, reeling out the door to 5012 with his DKNY jacket bundled in his arms and his shirt sweated clean through. He looks kind of hot all tousled and flushed.

I steady him with two hands on his narrow shoulders.

"Hey, stranger."

His mouth drops open. "Carter? What- what are you doing here?" His eyes dart back to the closed door.

I chuckle. "Hey don't worry about it. I, uh, I'm making a film too."

He doesn't look relieved. "Really? What, uh, what's it about? Oh wait, let me guess, you're a hooker."

"Is it the racoon-fur collar that made it obvious or the acid wash jeans?"

We share a laugh, going quiet as an enormous black guy emerges from the same room, towel over his shoulders. He's at least 6'5", shoulders so broad they just about brush the goddamn walls. He winks at Jake as he passes who turns bright red. I try to refrain from smiling too smugly.

"Hey…Carter?"

"Yeah."

He pushes back his sweaty quiff. I think I can actually see a little bit of spunk in his hair… "You're not at the restaurant much these days. Ziggy's getting lonely, keeps cracking onto me," he says with a little laugh.

"Ha. Anyway, this is the life right? Do you know Robert com'p half my taxi fare here? Half! Isn't that crazy?"

"Yeah…crazy. Listen, Carter, I sort of have to run so…"

"Oh yeah, shit, don't let me keep you. Hot date?"

"Nah, just Magenta's. You know, Wednesday nights."

I nod, remembering what I'm supposed to be doing and checking my watch. "Shit, Jake, I've gotta run. See you Sunday shift?"

His "Sure" is lost in the loud 'ding' of the elevator opening and two camera guys stumbling out, cursing with a truly massive piece of machine slung between them.

I'm still dwelling on the oddness of that conversation when I reach the suite at the end of the hall, which is what I blame for swiping the key card and opening the door without knocking.

"Shit," I hiss, closing the door softly behind me. "Uh, Ryan." I don't know why I'm whispering.

No response.

"Ryan, it's me…Carter."

I check the kitchenette and the bedroom even though I can hear the shower running. I'm just dreading having to disturb him in the shower. Then again, I might get lucky and catch him jerking off. The thought of all that delicious muscle tensed up, thrusting with abandon into his own fist under the hot shower spray is what drives me to crack the ensuite door open, light bouncing off the bright, white tiles blinding me for a moment.

He's not in the shower. He's sitting on the toilet and for one heart-stopping moment I think I've caught him mid-shit and there's just no coming back from that. Then I realize it's worse. Much worse. Because he's got a swab packet clenched between his perfect teeth and his eyes are fixed with single-minded, almost zen concentration on the needle sliding into the side of his penis.

"What the fuck…?"

His head jerks up. Did I really just say that out loud? Those icy-blues are pinning me where I stand with one hand slack on the brass doorknob. His beautiful, straight brows crease into a frown. He makes an annoyed clicking sound out the corner of his mouth, focusing on withdrawing the syringe. I slam the door between us, pressing my back up against the lacquered wood and trying to calm my pounding heart.

"Uhh, Robert wants us upstairs in three -two minutes, so if you're, uh, done in there, with…that…I mean, no problem man, I don't judge." Fuck fuck fuuuuck.

The door pulls open and I spin around to find him leaning in the door frame, expression cool, tuxedo immaculate. Dick very much in his pants.

"It's Caverject."

"Ok…bro. I feel that."

He sighs through his nostrils, irritated and bored all at once. "It's injectable viagra. Helps me get hard for this sort of stuff."

What? I'm confused and suspicious and hurt all at once. It comes out before I can stop it. I've always been stupidly honest like that.

"I don't get you hard."

His lips twitch but his eyes are unsmiling, almost dead. "You're a man."

"Oh." I think about the way he chose to ask Sophia of all people yesterday. "Why are you in gay porn then?"

His bored face tightens into a glare. "Are you for real? Gay. Pays. More," he says, punctuating each syllable with a stab of his finger against my chest. "Aren't we late for something?"

Oh shit.

We decide to take the stairs up, both of us too chicken shit to endure the elevator ride. Robert is quietly fuming, which is to say there's no actual way of detecting he's angry, but he's especially polite, ordering us to get our lighting checks as if he's ushering the Queen to sit for tea. Surprisingly, the guy on the bed, still in an open, red and gold brocade concierge jacket, is none other than Hunter, looking very satisfied with a puddle of semen cooling between his cut lines. He looks over from where Briar is congratulating him animatedly to give me a small, shy smile.

"Hey, Carter. How's it going?" he asks, wandering closer. He seems utterly unaware of the spunk situation, not to mention his wet cock hanging between us.

"Pretty good so far," I say uncertainly.

He looks ashamed. I think I can actually see a faint blush staining his bronzed cheeks. "Look, Carter, I feel really bad about the other day. I've got to learn to control my temper. Nothing personal, right? I hope I didn't bruise your shoulder." He reaches out and rubs the spot where he bumped me, smiling kind of wistfully and then ducks past to the bathroom.

Huh, the things that will embarrass a porn star.

"Ok, Carter, if you could start outside," Robert says, gesturing at the door without looking up from his copy of the manuscript. Crew and extras are filing out of the slightly crowded master suit now that the cameras are in position. "Knock when you're ready and we'll roll from there. Remember, he's called you, but you're in charge. Getting enough footage for the fuck scene might take a while so we'll go for four hours and if we can't use it we'll start up again in the morning. Everyone ready? Ok, Carter, if you would." His lackey opens the door for me. I'm still looking at the digital clock on the bedside table. It's 9pm already and we've been filming since 10 in the morning…

Once I'm outside by myself in the oddly moderated climate of the hotel hallway, it takes a while to psych myself up to knock on the door. I find myself transfixed with my knuckles paused over the line between the two ornate doors, knowing that one of them is going to open and I'll be staring at Ryan Wilde's beautiful, uninterested face while he delivers his line, "You're late", with perfect poise, Sophia with her camera behind him; and, inexplicably, I start to imagine my father- who, fuck's sake! I don't even know what he looks like anymore it's been so long- staring back at me too.

Fuck that.

I knock.

-:-:-:-

"You're late."

I raise an eyebrow, propped lazily against the doorframe. "Things to do, boys to see," I drawl, pushing past him into the room. "Nice place."

It really is nice, done out in a warm, Californian style, all wood and burnt, ochre colors against leather and ceramics. The sort of place where the windows are supposed to be open on a summer day with long white curtains dancing in on the breeze. The pool outside is a smear of glowing blue, the skyline a haze of glowing lights and beacons. I really probably could see my apartment building.

"How do you normally do this?" Ryan asks from behind me. He looks too good in that suit, the thin lapels clinging perfectly to the contour of his chest, the pant legs untraditionally tight, the seams dead on.

"How do you want to do this?" I quip back, stroking a finger along his lightly stubbled jawline. "You're the client." I make a show of sauntering around the room, idly running my fingers along the low-lying cabinet, over the designer trinkets and ornaments, the drooping lilies in their no doubt priceless vase; toying with the mahogany scalloping on the bed-end.

"Don't call me that," Ryan says darkly.

I shoot him a coy expression before flopping down on the edge of the bed. "What? 'Client'? But that's what you are, aren't you? Didn't you call me here so you could suck me? Fuck me blind, tie me up and make me come all over myself?" The mean-spirited teasing comes out way too easily as I bounce on the coverlet, testing the springs playfully.

"Don't," Ryan growls. The sensual tone of it crawls all the way down to the poor, neglected hard-on already perking back up. His eyes practically crackle with anger, whether it's in character or because I interrupted his little viagra-junkie session, I don't know.

"No need to get touchy about it, daddy," I say, "Just put the money down on the table and I'll call you whatever you want." I snap open my legs, drawing a hand over where my dick is straining against the seam of my jeans. His eyes track the movement hungrily.

He carefully unbuttons the tux jacket with one hand, the slow movements a specific direction from Robert, and draws out several bills, placing them on top of the cabinet.

"Undress yourself." I genuinely shiver at that, sliding to my feet and unzipping the jacket with what is hopefully a seductive look, and not the stoned gaze I've been told I actually affect mid-coitus. Ryan is yanking off his tie, the ill-chosen watch flashing in the light, eyes drinking me in like I'm a painting he finds pretentious. For the second time that night the suit jacket gets thrown haphazardly on the floor, its masterfully structured shoulders refusing to crumple and pool with the rest of the fabric.

He's on me faster than the script read-through could have prepared me for, grabbing the back of my jacket in one fist from behind while my back is turned and shoving me face first onto the bed; fisted pressure keeping my head down while he strokes long fingers up the inside of my awkwardly splayed leg, thumb digging into the seam of my pants over my hole.

I feel that dry pressure like it's personal. This might be the most arousing thing that a guy's ever done to me and fuck it if I'm not going to enjoy it.

"Yes, fuck!" I breathe into the satiny coverlet as the rest of his fingers stroke over my balls. All I can hear is the deep tick and coil of springs two feet of mattress below us and the crunch of my khaki as he winches it tighter, twisting so that I feel like the cheap fabric's cutting of the circulation under my armpits.

I feel his dick lining up against my crack, hot and insistent even through so many layers.

"Oh yes," I moan, "Oh yes, that's how I like it."

I feel him pause, minutely, against me and he expels a shaky breath. "Shut up."

I moan even louder.

His grip tightens. Now my arms feel like they're going to come off. "Shut. Up," he hisses. No, you're supposed to say, "I make the rules here", I think, annoyed. Then the pressure under my arms releases all of a sudden and he's shoving my head into the quilt, dick grinding up the back of my thigh.

I stay quiet as he flips me over although I can hear Sophia whispering something to Robert behind the ring of lighting and equipment. He yanks the jacket off me so roughly that I jerk up, almost sitting with my forehead bent to his chest before he slams me back down, pulling open the shirt underneath so that it stretches and tears like it's supposed to.

"Shut up," he mutters again, so softly that I can see Briar leaning in close with his microphone, straining to capture it.

He drags the back of his hand down my face, nails tickling pleasantly. Then he does it again, rougher, then cuffs me lightly, experimentally. Ok, a little improvisation. I can deal with that.

"Is that how you need it baby, rough?"

In response he slaps me, hard enough to make my eyes sting but not hard enough to kill my erection.

Slowly he stretches out on top of me, bringing our groins into contact, the hot hard feel of him making me grind my head into the mattress, eyes falling shut. He bites the edge of my jaw in punishment. Ok. Eyes open then.

I find myself staring at the tiny, perfect mole under his eye as he grinds a long, firm line down my body, hands stretching my arms out at the wrist so they're hanging half off the bed. I'm pretty sure we were supposed to keep this centred but what the hell.

"Going to fuck you," he moans against my neck. "Going to make you," he nips my ear and I start at the intensity of the feeling, "scream."

"God yes. Do it. Fuck me."

He groans into my hair, hips drawing jagged against me so that my legs shake with the pleasure of it, the sharp, rolling feeling of arousal fanning out, throbbing in the nerves behind my cock. We rock together, harsh and discordant, his hipbone catching on mine, the friction not enough between the silkiness of his suit pants and the thick denim of my jeans. I feel suffocated and electrified, like I'm going to come but knowing it will sting.

My leg bends out naturally, curving around, rubbing my calf up the back of his corded thigh and shoving him down onto me. He ruts down on my dick hard, gasping in my ear and then-

Everything's gone, the friction, the pressure, the weight of his arms over mine.

"Fuck this," Ryan's saying, already shuffling to end of the bed. "He's not working, I can't-" He sounds so angry it's coming out choked.

Robert is trying to calm him. "Come on Ryan, we got some really good footage there-"

"No. I won't work with him. It was a fuck up from the start. It was supposed to be Reid, even you can admit that."

"Yes," Robert says carefully while I sit there like a stunned mullet, my crotch throbbing and my stomach clenching so hard I think I'm gonna puke. "Yes, Tanner was the original choice but you signed after agreeing to work with-"

"I don't give a shit. It's shady. This isn't what we agreed on when you called me in to make the movie," he says, shrugging the jacket back on off the floor. I stare at the crease running from tailbone to armpit as he strides over to the door.

"Wilde-" Sophia starts, hard steel in her voice.

"No, Sophia, let him go," Robert sighs, stepping away from his camera and sinking into a chair. "He's right. It's not working. They're too…I'm sorry Carter. Perhaps we'll try again tomorrow."

I swallow around the sinking feeling of rejection. But I was doing everything so right!

"It's cool," I hear myself say, dully.

Robert shakes his head. "No, I'm sorry. It really has been a patchwork from the out. We'll just have to try and salvage something tomorrow once he's cooled down."

"And if he doesn't?"

He throws his hands up in a 'then we're fucked' way.

Briar clears his throat. "I thought it was good."

No one bothers answering him. Sophia starts to angrily pack up her gear.

"I think I'm going to…" I point in the direction of the bathroom. Have a cry and steal a fuckload of shampoo, I think, but don't say it out loud.

"Yes of course. You'll want to get cleaned up for tonight," Robert says blandly, staring at the manuscript rolled loosely between his hands.

"It's a sort of soirée for Ryan's full-length debut," he says, seeing my confused look. "Francis Gold is hosting it." The name rings a bell but I'm too tired to care. "Daz should have sent it through to your email."

I shake my head, grabbing the jacket off the floor and then on second thought, dropping it dejectedly.

"I can't. I'm on breakfast shift tomorrow."

"Too bad. You're part of the studio, Carter. People who've seen your profile will be expecting you. It's all very…" He seems to give up there, staring into space so I just not my head in defeat and make to leave.

"Wait," Robert says suddenly. I turn around. "Did anyone get the suit off him?"


End file.
